THE  WOMAN 
THOU  GAYEST  ME 

BEING    THE     STORY     OF 
MARY    O'NEILL    WRITTEN    BY 

HALL  CAINE 


THE  WOMAN 
THOU  GAVEST  ME 


UNIV.  OF  EALTF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE    WOMAN    THOU    GAYEST    ME 

This  novel  will  be  -published  as  nearly  as  possible  simultaneously  in  the  following 
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THE  WOMAN 
THOU  GAVEST  ME 

BEING   THE  STORY  OF 
MARY  O'NEILL  WRITTEN  BY 

HALL  CAINE 


PHILADELPHIA  &  LONDON 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1913 


MARTIN  CONRAD  TO  THE  AUTHOR 

HERE  are  the  Memoranda  we  have  talked  about.  Do  as 
you  like  with  them.  Alter,  amend,  add  to  or  take  away  from 
them,  exactly  as  you  think  best.  They  were  written  in  the 
first  instance  for  my  own  eye  alone,  and  hence  they  take  much 
for  granted  which  may  need  explanation  before  they  can  be 
put  to  the  more  general  uses  you  have  designed  for  them. 
Make  such  explanation  in  any  way  you  consider  suitable. 
It  is  my  wish  that  in  this  matter  your  judgment  should  be 
accepted  as  mine.  The  deep  feeling  you  could  not  conceal 
when  I  told  you  the  story  of  my  dear  one's  life  gives  me 
confidence  in  your  discretion. 

Whatever  the  immediate  effect  may  be,  I  feel  that  in  the 
end  I  shall  be  justified — fully  justified — in  allowing  the 
public  to  look  for  a  little  while  into  the  sacred  confessional 
of  my  darling's  stainless  heart. 

I  heard  her  voice  again  to-day.  She  was  right — love  is 
immortal.  God  bless  her  I  My  ever  lovely  and  beloved  one! 


CONTENTS 

THE  NARRATIVE  OF  MARY  O'NEILL 

PAQE 

FIRST  PART  :    MY  GIRLHOOD  1 

SECOND  PART  :    MY  MARRIAGE  97 

THIRD  PART  :    MY  HONEYMOON  185 

FOURTH  PART  :    I  FALL  IN  LOVE  210 

FIFTH  PART :    I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  308 

SIXTH  PART  :    I  AM  LOST  401 

SEVENTH  PART  :    I  AM  FOUND  505 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE  :  The  name  Raa  (of 
Celtic  origin  with  many  variations  among 
Celtic  races)  is  pronounced  Rah  in  Elian. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF 
MARY  O'NEILL 


FIRST  CHAPTER 

"OuT  of  the  depths,  0  Lord,  out  of  the  depths,"  begins  the 
most  beautiful  ot  the  services  of  our  church,  and  it  is  out  of  the 
depths  of  my  life  that  I  must  bring  the  incidents  of  this  story. 

I  was  an  unwanted  child — unwanted  as  a  girl  at  all  events. 
Father  Dan  Donovan,  our  parish  priest,  told  me  all  about  it. 
I  was  born  in  October.  It  had  been  raining  heavily  all  day 
long.  The  rain  was  beating  hard  against  the  front  of  our 
house  and  running  in  rivers  down  the  window-panes.  Towards 
four  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  rose  and  then  the  yellow  leaves 
of  the  chestnuts  in  the  long  drive  rustled  noisily,  and  the  sea, 
which  is  a  mile  away,  moaned  like  a  dog  in  pain. 

In  my  father's  room,  on  the  ground  floor,  Father  Dan  sat 
by  the  fire,  fingering  his  beads  and  listening  to  every  sound 
that  came  from  my  mother's  room,  which  was  immediately 
overhead.  My  father  himself,  with  his  heavy  step  that  made 
the  house  tremble,  was  tramping  to  and  fro,  from  the  window 
to  the  ingle,  from  the  ingle  to  the  opposite  wall.  Sometimes 
Aunt  Bridget  came  down  to  say  that  everything  was  going  on 
well,  and  at  intervals  of  half  an  hour  Doctor  Conrad  entered 
in  his  noiseless  way  and  sat  in  silence  by  the  fire,  took  a  few 
puffs  from  a  long  clay  pipe  and  then  returned  to  his  charge 
upstairs. 

My  father's  impatience  was  consuming  him. 

"It's  long,"  he  said,  searching  the  doctor's  face. 

"Don't  worry — above  all  don't  worry,"  said  Father  Dan. 

"There's  no  need,"  said  Doctor  Conrad. 

"Then  hustle  back  and  get  it  over,"  said  my  father.  "It 
will  be  five  hundred  dollars  to  you  if  this  comes  off  all  right." 

I  think  my  father  was  a  great  man  at  that  time.  I  think 
he  is  still  a  great  man.  Hard  and  cruel  as  he  may  have  been 

1  A 


2  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

to  me,  I  feel  bound  to  say  that  for  him.  J  f  he  had  been  born 
a  king,  he  would  have  made  his  nation  feared  and  perhaps 
respected  throughout  the  world.  He  was  born  a  peasant,  the 
poorest  of  peasants,  a  crofter.  The  little  homestead  of  his 
family,  with  its  whitewashed  walls  and  straw-thatched  roof, 
still  stands  on  the  bleak  ayre-lands  of  Elian,  like  a  herd  of 
mottled  cattle  crouching  together  in  a  storm. 

His  own  father  had  been  a  wild  creature,  full  of  daring 
dreams,  and  the  chief  of  them  had  centred  in  himself.  Al- 
though brought  up  in  a  mud  cabin,  and  known  as  Daniel 
Neale,  he  believed  that  he  belonged  by  lineal  descent  to  the 
highest  aristocracy  of  his  island,  the  O'Neills  of  the  Mansion 
House  (commonly  called  the  Big  House)  and  the  Barons  of 
Castle  Raa.  To  prove  his  claim  he  spent  his  days  in  searching 
the  registers  of  the  parish  churches,  and  his  nights  in  talking 
loudly  in  the  village  inn.  Half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest, 
people  called  him  "Neale  the  Lord."  One  day  he  was  brought 
home  dead,  killed  in  a  drunken  quarrel  with  Captain  O'Neill, 
a  dissolute  braggart,  who  had  struck  him  over  the  temple  with 
a  stick.  His  wife,  my  grandmother,  hung  a  herring  net  across 
the  only  room  of  her  house  to  hide  his  body  from  the  children 
who  slept  in  the  other  bed. 

There  were  six  of  them,  and  after  the  death  of  her  husband 
she  had  to  fend  for  all.  The  little  croft  was  hungry  land,  and 
to  make  a  sufficient  living  she  used  to  weed  for  her  more 
prosperous  neighbours.  It  was  ill-paid  labour — ninepence  a 
day  fine  days  and  sixpence  all  weathers,  with  a  can  of  milk 
twice  a  week  and  a  lump  of  butter  thrown  in  now  and  then. 
,  The  ways  were  hard  and  the  children  were  the  first  to  feel 
them.  Five  of  them  died.  "They  weren't  willing  to  stay  with 
me,"  she  used  to  say.  My  father  alone  was  left  to  her,  and 
he  was  another  Daniel.  As  he  grew  up  he  was  a  great  help 
to  his  mother.  I  feel  sure  he  loved  her.  Difficult  as  it  may 
be  to  believe  it  now,  I  really  and  truly  think  that  his  natural 
disposition  was  lovable  and  generous  to  begin  with. 

There  is  a  story  of  his  boyhood  which  it  would  be  wrong 
of  me  not  to  tell.  His  mother  and  he  had  been  up  in  the  moun- 
tains cutting  gorse  and  ling,  which  with  turf  from  the  Curragh 
used  to  be  the  crofter's  only  fuel.  They  were  dragging  down 
a  prickly  pile  of  it  by  a  straw  rope  when,  dipping  into  the 
high  road  by  a  bridge,  they  crossed  the  path  of  a  splendid 
carriage  which  swirled  suddenly  out  of  the  drive  of  the  Big 
House  behind  two  high -spirited  bays  driven  by  an  English 


MY  GIRLHOOD  3 

coachman  in  gorgeous  livery.  The  horses  reared  and  shied 
at  the  bundle  of  kindling,  whereupon  a  gentleman  inside  the 
carriage  leaned  out  and  swore,  and  then  the  brutal  coachman, 
lashing  out  at  the  bare-headed  woman  with  his  whip,  struck 
the  boy  on  his  naked  legs. 

At  the  next  moment  the  carriage  had  gone.  It  had  belonged 
to  the  head  of  the  O'Neills,  Lord  Raa  of  Castle  Raa,  whose 
nearest  kinsman,  Captain  0  'Neill,  had  killed  my  grandfather, 
so  my  poor  grandmother  said  nothing.  But  her  little  son,  as 
soon  as  his  smarting  legs  would  allow,  wiped  his  eyes  with 
his  ragged  sleeve  and  said : 

' '  Never  mind,  mammy.  You  shall  have  a  carriage  of  your 
own  when  I  am  a  man,  and  then  nobody  shall  never  lash  you. ' ' 

His  mother  died.  He  was  twenty  years  of  age  at  that  time, 
a  large-limbed,  lusty-lunged  fellow,  almost  destitute  of  edu- 
cation but  with  a  big  brain  and  an  unconquerable  will ;  so  he 
strapped  his  chest  and  emigrated  to  America.  What  work 
he  found  at  first  I  never  rightly  knew.  I  can  only  remember 
to  have  heard  that  it  was  something  dangerous  to  human  life 
and  that  the  hands  above  him  dropped  off  rapidly.  Within 
two  years  he  was  a  foreman.  Within  five  years  he  was  a 
partner.  In  ten  years  he  was  a  rich  man.  At  the  end  of  five- 
and-twenty  years  he  was  a  millionaire,  controlling  trusts  and 
corporations  and  carrying  out  great  combines. 

I  once  heard  him  say  that  the  money  tumbled  into  his  chest 
like  crushed  oats  out  of  a  crovvn  shaft,  but  what  happened  at 
last  was  never  fully  explained  to  me.  Something  I  heard  of 
a  collision  with  the  law  and  of  a  forced  assignment  of  his 
interests.  All  that  is  material  to  my  story  is  that  at  forty-five 
years  of  age  he  returned  to  Elian.  He  was  then  a  changed 
man,  with  a  hard  tongue,  a  stern  mouth,  and  a  masterful  lift 
of  the  eyebrows.  His  passion  for  wealth  had  left  its  mark 
upon  him,  but  the  whole  island  went  down  before  his  face  like 
a  flood,  and  the  people  who  had  made  game  of  his  father  came 
crawling  to  his  feet  like  cockroaches. 

The  first  thing  he  did  on  coming  home  was  to  buy  up  his 
mother's  croft,  re-thatch  the  old  house,  and  put  in  a  poor 
person  to  take  care  of  it. 

' '  Guess  it  may  come  handy  some  day, ' '  he  said. 

His  next  act  was  worthy  of  the  son  of  "Neale  the  Lord." 
Finding  that  Captain  O'Neill  had  fallen  deeply  into  debt,  he 
bought  up  the  braggart's  mortgages,  turned  him  out  of  the 
Big  House,  and  took  up  his  own  abode  in  it. 


4  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Twelve  months  later  he  made  amends,  after  his  own  manner, 
by  marrying  one  of  the  Captain's  daughters.  There  were 
two  of  them.  Isabel,  the  elder,  was  a  gentle  and  beautiful  girl, 
very  delicate,  very  timid,  and  most  sweet  when  most  submissive, 
like  the  woodland  herbs  which  give  out  their  sweetest  fragrance 
when  they  are  trodden  on  and  crushed.  Bridget,  the  younger, 
was  rather  homely,  rather  common,  proud  of  her  strength  of 
mind  and  will 

To  the  deep  chagrin  of  the  younger  sister,  my  father  selected 
the  elder  one.  I  have  never  heard  that  my  mother's  wishes 
were  consulted.  Her  father  and  my  father  dealt  with  the 
marriage  as  a  question  of  business,  and  that  was  an  end  of  the 
matter.  On  the  wedding  day  my  father  did  two  things  that 
were  highly  significant.  He  signed  the  parish  register  in  the 
name  of  Daniel  O'Neill  by  right  of  Letters  Patent;  and  on 
taking  his  bride  back  to  her  early  home,  he  hoisted  over  the 
tower  of  his  chill  grey  house  the  stars  and  stripes  of  his  once 
adopted  country  stitched  to  the  flag  of  his  native  island.  He 
had  talked  less  than  "Neale  the  Lord,"  but  he  had  thought 
and  acted  more. 

Two  years  passed  without  offspring,  and  my  father  made  no 
disguise  of  his  disappointment,  which  almost  amounted  to 
disgust.  Hitherto  he  had  occupied  himself  with  improvements 
in  his  house  and  estate,  but  now  his  restless  energies  required 
a  wider  field,  and  he  began  to  look  about  him.  Elian  was  then 
a  primitive  place,  and  its  inhabitants,  half  landsmen,  half 
seamen,  were  a  simple  pious  race  living  in  a  sweet  poverty 
which  rarely  descended  into  want.  But  my  father  had  magnifi- 
cent schemes  for  it.  By  push,  energy  and  enterprise  he  would 
galvanise  the  island  into  new  life,  build  hotels,  theatres,  casinos, 
drinking  halls  and  dancing  palaces,  lay  out  race-courses,  con- 
struct electric  railways  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and 
otherwise  transform  the  place  into  a  holiday  resort  for  the 
people  of  the  United  Kingdom. 

"We'll  just  sail  in  and  make  this  old  island  hum,"  he  said, 
and  a  number  of  his  neighbours,  nothing  loth  to  be  made  rich 
by  magic — advocates,  bankers  and  insular  councillors — joined 
hands  with  him  in  his  adventurous  schemes. 

But  hardly  had  he  begun  when  a  startling  incident  happened. 
The  old  Lord  Raa  of  Castle  Raa,  head  of  the  0  'Neills,  the  same 
that  had  sworn  at  my  grandmother,  after  many  years  in  which 
he  had  lived  a  bad  life  abroad  where  he  had  contracted  fatal 
maladies,  returned  to  Elian  to  die.  Being  a  bachelor,  his 


heir  would  have  been  Captain  O'Neill,  but  my  mother's  father 
had  died  during  the  previous  winter,  and  in  the  absence  of 
direct  male  issue  it  seemed  likely  that  both  title  and  inheritance 
(which,  by  the  conditions  of  an  old  Patent,  might  have  de- 
scended to  the  nearest  living  male  through  the  female  line) 
would  go  to  a  distant  relative,  a  boy,  fourteen  years  of  age,  a 
Protestant,  who  was  then  at  school  at  Eton. 

More  than  ever  now  my  father  chewed  the  cud  of  his  great 
disappointment.  But  it  is  the  unexpected  that  oftenest  hap- 
pens, and  one  day  in  the  spring,  Doctor  Conrad,  being  called 
to  see  my  mother,  who  was  indisposed,  announced  that  she 
was  about  to  bear  a  child. 

My  father's  delight  was  almost  delirious,  though  at  first 
his  happiness  was  tempered  by  the  fear  that  the  child  that 
was  to  be  born  to  him  might  not  prove  a  boy.  Even  this 
danger  disappeared  from  his  mind  after  a  time,  and  before 
long  his  vanity  and  his  unconquerable  will  had  so  triumphed 
over  his  common  sense  that  he  began  to  speak  of  his  unborn 
chikl  as  a  son,  just  as  if  the  birth  of  a  male  child  had  been 
prearranged.  With  my  mother,  with  Doctor  Conrad,  and 
above  all  with  Father  Dan,  he  sometimes  went  the  length  of 
discussing  his  son's  name.  It  was  to  be  Hugh,  because  that 
had  been  the  name  of  the  heads  of  the  O'Neills  through  all 
the  ages,  as  far  back  as  the  legendary  days  in  which,  as  it 
was  believed,  they  had  been  the  Kings  of  Elian. 

My  mother  was  no  less  overjoyed.  She  had  justified  herself 
at  last,  and  if  she  was  happy  enough  at  the  beginning  in  the 
tingling  delight  of  the  woman  who  is  about  to  know  the  sweetest 
of  humau  joys,  the  joy  of  bearing  a  child,  she  acquiesced 
at  length  in  the  accepted  idea  that  her  child  would  be  a  boy. 
Perhaps  she  was  moved  to  this  merely  by  a  desire  to  submit 
to  her  husband 's  will,  and  to  realise  his  hopes  and  expectations. 
Or  perhaps  she  had  another  reason,  a  secret  reason,  a  reason 
that  came  of  her  own  weakness  and  timidity  as  a  woman, 
namely,  that  the  man  child  to  be  born  of  her  would  be  strong 
and  brave  and  free. 

All  went  well  down  to  the  end  of  autumn,  and  then  alarming 
news  came  from  Castle  Raa.  The  old  lord  had  developed 
some  further  malady  and  was  believed  to  be  sinking  rapidly. 
Doctor  Conrad  was  consulted  and  he  gave  it  as  his  opinion 
that  the  patient  could  not  live  beyond  the  year.  This  threw 
my  father  into  a  fever  of  anxiety.  Sending  for  his  advocate, 
he  took  counsel  both  with  him  and  with  Father  Dan. 


6  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

* '  Come  now,  let  us  get  the  hang  of  this  business, ' '  he  said ; 
and  when  he  realised  that  (according  to  the  terms  of  the 
ancient  Patent)  i£  the  old  lord  died  before  his  child  was  born, 
his  high-built  hopes  would  be  in  the  dust,  his  eagerness  became 
a  consuming  fire. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  excitement  took  forms  of 
religion  and  benevolence.  He  promised  that  if  everything 
went  well  he  would  give  a  new  altar  to  Our  Lady's  Chapel  in 
the  parish  church  of  St.  Mary,  a  ton  of  coals  to  every  poor 
person  within  a  radius  of  five  miles,  and  a  supper  to  every 
inhabitant  of  the  neighbouring  village  who  was  more  than 
sixty  years  of  age.  It  was  even  rumoured  that  he  went  so 
far  in  secret  as  to  provide  funds  for  the  fireworks  with 
which  some  of  his  flatterers  were  to  celebrate  the  forthcoming 
event,  and  that  one  form  of  illumination  was  a  gigantic  frame 
which,  set  upon  the  Sky  Hill,  immediately  in  front  of  our 
house,  was  intended  to  display  in  brilliant  lights  the  glowing 
words  "God  Bless  the  Happy  Heir."  Certainly  the  birth 
was  to  be  announced  by  the  ringing  of  the  big  bell  of  the 
tower  as  signal  to  the  country  round  about  that  the  appointed 
festivities  might  begin. 

Day  by  day  through  September  into  October,  news  came 
from  Castle  Raa  by  secret  channels.  Morning  by  morning, 
Doctor  Conrad  was  sent  for  to  see  my  mother.  Never  had 
the  sun  looked  down  on  a  more  gruesome  spectacle.  It  was 
a  race  between  the  angel  of  death  and  the  angel  of  life,  with 
my  father's  masterful  soul  between,  struggling  to  keep  back 
the  one  and  to  hasten  on  the  other. 

My  father's  impatience  affected  everybody  about  him.  Espe- 
cially it  communicated  itself  to  the  person  chiefly  concerned. 
The  result  was  just  what  might  have  been  expected.  My 
mother  was  brought  to  bed  prematurely,  a  full  month  before 
her  time. 

SECOND  CHAPTER 

BY  six  o'clock  the  wind  had  risen  to  the  force  of  a  hurricane. 
The  last  of  the  withered  leaves  of  the  trees  in  the  drive  had 
fallen  and  the  bare  branches  were  beating  together  like  bundles 
of  rods.  The  sea  was  louder  than  ever,  and  the  bell  on  St. 
Mary's  Rock,  a  mile  away  from  the  shore,  was  tolling  like 
a  knell  under  the  surging  of  the  waves.  Sometimes  the  clash- 
ing of  the  rain  against  the  window-panes  was  like  the  wash  of 
billows  over  the  port-holes  of  a  ship  at  sea. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  7 

"Pity  for  the  poor  folk  with  their  fireworks,"  said  Father 
Dan. 

"They'll  eat  their  suppers  for  all  that,"  said  my  father. 

It  was  now  dark,  but  my  father  would  not  allow  the  lamps 
to  be  lighted.  There  was  therefore  no  light  in  his  gaunt  room 
except  a  sullen  glow  from  the  fire  of  peat  and  logs.  Some-, 
times,  in  a  momentary  lull  of  the  storm,  an  intermittent  moan 
would  come  from  the  room  above,  followed  by  a  dull  hum 
of  voices. 

' '  Guess  it  can 't  be  long  now. ' '  my  father  would  say. 

"Praise  the  Lord,"  Father  Dan  would  answer. 

By  seven  the  storm  was  at  its  height.  The  roaring  of  the 
wind  in  the  wide  chimney  was  as  loud  as  thunder.  Save  for 
this  the  thunderous  noise  of  the  sea  served  to  drown  all  sounds 
on  the  land.  Nevertheless,  in  the  midst  of  the  clamour  a 
loud  rapping  was  heard  at  the  front  door.  One  of  the  maid- 
servants would  have  answered  it,  but  my  father  called  her 
back  and,  taking  up  a  lantern,  went  to  the  door  himself.  As 
quietly  as  he  could  for  the  rush  of  wind  without,  he  opened 
it,  and  pulling  it  after  him,  he  stepped  into  the  porch. 

A  man  in  livery  was  there  on  horseback,  with  another  saddled 
horse  beside  him.  He  was  drenched  through,  but  steaming 
with  sweat  as  if  he  had  ridden  long  and  hard.  Shouting  above 
the  roar  of  the  storm,  he  said : 

"Doctor  Conrad  is  here,  is  he?" 

' '  He  is — what  of  it  ? "  said  my  father. 

"Tell  him  he's  wanted  and  must  come  away  with  me  at 
once." 

' '  Who  says  he  must  ? ' ' 

"Lord  Raa,  His  lordship  is  dangerously  ill.  He  wishes 
to  see  the  doctor  immediately. ' ' 

I  think  my  father  must  then  have  gone  through  a  moment 
of  fierce  conflict  between  his  desire  to  keep  the  old  lord  alive 
and  his  hope  of  the  immediate  birth  of  his  offspring.  But 
his  choice  was  quickly  made. 

"Tell  the  lord,"  he  cried,  "that  a  woman  is  here  in  child- 
birth, and  until  she's  delivered  the  doctor  cannot  come  to  him." 

"But  I've  brought  a  horse,  and  the  doctor  is  to  go  back 
with  me. ' ' 

"Give  the  lord  my  message  and  say  it  is  Daniel  O'Neill 
who  sends  it. ' ' 

"But  his  lordship  is  dying  and  unless  the  doctor  is  there 
to  tap  him,  he  may  not  live  till  morning." 


8  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Unless  the  doctor  is  here  to  deliver  my  wife,  my  child 
may  be  dead  before  midnight." 

"What  is  the  birth  of  your  child  to  the  death  of  his 
lordship?"  cried  the  man;  but,  before  the  words  were  well 
out  of  his  mouth,  my  father,  in  his  great  strength,  had  laid 
hold  of  the  reins  and  swung  both  horse  and  rider  round 
about. 

"Get  yourself  to  the  other  side  of  my  gate,  or  I'll  fling 
you  into  the  road,"  he  cried;  and  then,  returning  to  the 
porch,  he  re-entered  the  house  and  clashed  the  door  behind 
him. 

Father  Dan  used  to  say  that  for  some  moments  more  the 
groom  from  Castle  Raa  could  be  heard  shouting  the  name  of 
the  doctor  to  the  lighted  windows  of  my  mother's  room.  But 
his  voice  was  swirled  away  in  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  and 
after  a  while  the  hoofs  of  his  horses  went  champing  over  the 
gravel  in  the  direction  of  the  gate. 

When  my  father  returned  to  his  room,  shaking  the  rain 
from  his  hair  and  beard,  he  was  fuming  with  indignation. 
Perhaps  a  memory  of  forty  years  ago  was  seething  in  his 
excited  brain. 

' '  The  old  scoundrel, ' '  he  said.  "  He  'd  like  it,  wouldu  't  he  ? 
They'd  all  like  it!  Which  of  them  wants  a  son  of  mine 
amongst  them?" 

The  roaring  night  outside  became  yet  more  terrible.  So 
loud  was  the  noise  from  the  shore  that  it  was  almost  as  if  a 
wild  beast  were  trying  to  liberate  itself  from  the  womb  of 
the  sea.  At  one  moment  Aunt  Bridget  came  downstairs  to 
say  that  the  storm  was  frightening  my  mother.  All  the 
servants  of  the  house  were  gathered  in  the  hall,  full  of  fear, 
and  telling  each  other  superstitious  stories. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  lull.  Rain  and  wind  seemed  to  cease 
in  an  instant.  The  clamour  of  the  sea  became  less  and  the 
tolling  of  the  bell  on  St.  Mary's  Rock  died  away  in  the  distance. 
It  was  almost  as  if  the  world,  which  had  been  whirling  through 
space,  suddenly  stood  still. 

In  that  moment  of  silence  a  deeper  moan  than  usual  came 
from  the  room  overhead.  My  father  dropped  into  a  chair, 
clasped  his  hands  and  closed  his  eyes.  Father  Dan  rattled 
his  pearl  beads  and  moved  his  lips,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

Then  a  faint  sound  came  from  the  room  overhead.  My 
father  opened  his  eyes  and  listened.  Father  Dan  held  his 
breath.  The  sound  was  repeated,  but  louder,  clearer,  shriller 


MY  GIRLHOOD  9 

than  before.  There  could  be  no  mistaking  it  now.  It  was 
Nature's  eternal  signal  that  out  of  the  womb  of  silence  a 
living  soul  had  been  born  into  the  world. 

"It's  over,"  said  my  father. 

11  Glory  be  to  God  and  all  the  Saints!"  said  Father  Dan. 

"That'll  beat  'em,"  cried  my  father,  and  he  leapt  to  his 
feet  and  laughed. 

Going  to  the  door  of  the  room,  he  flung  it  open.  The 
servants  in  the  hall  were  now  whispering  eagerly,  and  one 
of  them,  the  gardener,  Tom  Dug,  commonly  called  Tommy 
the  Mate,  stepped  out  and  asked  if  he  ought  to  ring  the 
big  bell. 

"Certainly,"  said  my  father.  "Isn't  that  what  you've 
been  standing  by  for?" 

A  few  minutes  later  the  bell  of  the  tower  began  to  ring, 
and  it  was  followed  almost  immediately  by  the  bell  of  our 
parish  church,  which  rang  out  a  merry  peal. 

"That'll  beat  'em,  I  say,"  cried  my  father,  and  laughing 
in  his  triumph  he  tramped  the  flagged  floor  with  a  firmer  step 
than  ever. 

All  at  once  the  crying  of  the  child  ceased  and  there  was 
a  confused  rumble  of  voices  overhead.  My  father  stopped, 
his  face  straightened,  and  his  voice,  which  had  rung  out  like 
a  horn,  wheezed  back  like  a  whistle. 

"What's  going  doing?  "Where's  Conrad?  Why  doesn't 
Conrad  come  to  me?" 

"Don't  worry.  He'll  be  down  presently,"  said  Father 
Dan. 

A  few  minutes  passed,  in  which  nothing  was  said  and  nothing 
heard,  and  then,  unable  to  bear  the  suspense  any  longer, 
my  father  went  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  shouted  the 
doctor's  name. 

A  moment  later  the  doctor's  footsteps  were  heard  on  the 
stone  stairs.    They  were  hesitating,  halting,  dragging  footsteps. 
Then  the  doctor  entered  my  father's  room.    Even  in  the  sullen 
light  of  the  peat  fire  his  face  was  white,  ashen  white.     He 
did  not  speak  at  first,  and  there  was  an  instant  of  silence,  dead 
silence.    Then  my  father  said : 
'Well,  what  is  it?" 
'It  is     .     .     ." 

'Speak  man!     .     .     .     Do  you  mean  it  is     .     .     .    deadf" 
'No!    Oh  no!    Not  that." 
'What  then?" 


10 

"It  is  a  girl." 

"Agir.     .     .     .     Did  you  say  a  girl  ?" 

"Yes." 

"My  God!"  said  my  father,  and  he  dropped  back  into  the 
chair.  His  lips  were  parted  and  his  eyes  which  had  been 
blazing  with  joy,  became  fixed  on  the  dying  fire  in  a  stupid 
stare. 

Father  Dan  tried  to  console  him.  There  were  thistles  in 
everybody's  crop,  and  after  all  it  was  a  good  thing  to  have 
begotten  a  girl.  Girls  were  the  flowers  of  life,  the  joy  and 
comfort  of  man  in  his  earthly  pilgrimage,  and  many  a  father 
who  bemoaned  his  fate  when  a  daughter  had  been  born  to  him, 
had  lived  to  thank  the  Lord  for  her. 

All  this  time  the  joy  bells  had  been  ringing,  and  now  the 
room  began  to  be  illuminated  by  fitful  flashes  of  variegated 
light  from  the  firework- frame  on  the  top  of  Sky  Hill,  which 
(as  well  as  it  could  for  the  rain  that  had  soaked  it)  was  sputter- 
ing out  its  mocking  legend,  "God  Bless  the  Happy  Heir." 

In  his  soft  Irish  voice,  which  was  like  a  river  running  over 
smooth  stones,  Father  Dan  went  on  with  his  comforting. 

"Yes,  women  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  God  bless  them, 
and  when  I  think  of  what  they  suffer  that  the  world  may  go 
on,  that  the  generations  may  not  fail,  I  feel  as  if  I  want  to  go 
down  on  my  knees  and  kiss  the  feet  of  the  first  woman  I  meet 
in  the  street.  "What  would  the  world  be  without  women  ? 
Think  of  St.  Theresa!  Think  of  the  Blessed  Margaret  Maryi 
Think  of  the  Holy  Virgin  herself.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  stow  this  stuff,"  cried  my  father,  and  leaping  to  his 
feet,  he  began  to  curse  and  swear. 

"Stop  that  accursed  bell!  Is  the  fool  going  to  ring  for 
ever?  Put  out  those  damnable  lights,  too.  Put  them  out. 
Are  the  devils  of  hell  trying  to  laugh  at  me?" 

With  that,  and  an  oath  at  himself  for  his  folly,  my  father 
strode  out  of  the  room. 

My  mother  had  heard  him.  Through  the  unceiled  timbers 
of  the  floor  between  them  the  words  of  his  rage  had  reached 
her.  She  was  ashamed.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  a  guilty  thing, 
and  with  a  low  cry  of  pain  she  turned  to  the  wall  and  fainted. 

The  old  lord  died  the  same  night.  Somewhere,  towards 
the  dead  reaches  of  the  dawn  his  wicked  spirit  went  to  its 
reckoning,  and  a  month  afterwards  the  new  Lord  Raa,  a  boy 
in  an  Eton  jacket,  came  over  to  take  possession  of  his  in- 
heritance. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  11 

But  long  before  that  my  father,  scoring  out  his  disappoint- 
ment like  an  account  that  was  closed,  had  got  to  work  with  his 
advocates,  bankers  and  insular  councillors  on  his  great  schemes 
for  galvanising  the  old  island  into  new  life. 

THIRD  CHAPTER 

OUT  of  the  mist  and  veil  of  my  own  memory,  as  distinguished 
from  Father  Dan's,  there  comes  first  the  recollection  of  a  big 
room  containing  a  big  bed,  a  big  wardrobe,  a  big  dressing  table, 
a  big  praying-stool  with  an  image  of  Our  Lady  on  the  wall 
above  it,  and  an  open  window  to  which  a  sparrow  used  to  come 
in  the  mornings  and  chirp. 

When  I  came  to  recognise  and  to  classify  I  realised  that  this 
was  my  mother's  room,  and  that  the  sweet  somebody  who 
used  to  catch  me  up  in  her  arms  when  I  went  tottering  on 
voyages  of  discovery  round  the  vast  place  was  my  mother 
herself,  and  that  she  would  comfort  me  when  I  fell,  and  stroke 
my  head  with  her  thin  white  hand,  while  she  sang  softly  and 
rocked  me  to  and  fro. 

As  I  have  no  recollection  of  ever  having  seen  my  mother  in 
any  other  part  of  our  house,  or  indeed  in  any  other  place 
except  our  carriage  when  we  drove  out  in  the  sunshine,  I  con- 
clude that  from  the  time  of  my  birth  she  had  been  an  invalid. 

Certainly  the  faces  which  first  emerge  from  the  islands  of 
my  memory  are  the  cheerful  and  sunny  ones  of  Doctor  Conrad 
and  F'ather  Dan.  I  recall  the  soft  voice  of  the  one  as  he  used 
to  enter  our  room  after  breakfast  saying,  "How  are  we  this 
morning  ma'am?"  And  I  remember  the  still  softer  voice  of 
the  other  as  he  said  "And  how  is  my  daughter  to-day ?" 

I  loved  both  of  them,  but  especially  Father  Dan,  who  used 
to  call  me  his  Nanny  and  say  I  was  the  plague  and  pet  of  his 
life,  being  as  full  of  mischief  as  a  goat.  He  must  have  been  an 
old  child  himself,  for  I  have  clear  recollection  of  how,  imme- 
diately after  confessing  my  mother,  he  would  go  down  on  all 
fours  with  me  on  the  floor  and  play  at  hide-and-seek  around 
the  legs  of  Ihe  big  bed,  amid  squeals  and  squeaks  of  laughter. 
I  remember,  too,  that  he  wore  a  long  sack  coat  which  buttoned 
close  at  the  neck  and  hung  loose  at  the  skirts,  where  there  were 
two  large  vertical  pockets,  and  that  these  pockets  were  my 
cupboards  and  drawers,  for  I  put  my  toys  and  my  doll  and  even 
the  remnants  of  my  cakes  into  them  to  be  kept  in  safe  custody 
until  wanted  again. 


12  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

My  mother  called  me  Mally  veen  (Mary  dear)  and  out  of  love 
of  her  only  child  she  must  have  weaned  me  late,  for  I  have 
vague  memories  of  her  soft  white  breasts  filled  with  milk.  I 
slept  in  a  little  wickerwork  cot  placed  near  her  bed,  so  that 
she  could  reach  me  if  I  uncovered  myself  in  the  night.  She 
used  to  say  I  was  like  a  bird,  having  something  birdlike  in  my 
small  dark  head  and  the  way  I  held  it  up.  Certainly  I  remem- 
ber myself  as  a  swift  little  thing,  always  darting  to  and  fro 
on  tiptoe,  and  chirping  about  our  chill  and  rather  cheerless 
house. 

If  I  was  like  a  bird  my  mother  was  like  a  flower.  Her  head, 
which  was  small  and  fair,  and  her  face,  which  was  nearly 
always  tinged  with  colour,  drooped  forward  from  her  delicate 
body  like  a  rose  from  its  stalk.  She  was  generally  dressed  in 
black,  I  remember,  but  she  wore  a  white  lace  collar  as  well  as 
a  coif  such  as  we  see  in  old  pictures,  and  when  I  call  her  back 
to  my  mind,  with  her  large  liquid  eyes  and  her  sweet  soft  mouth, 
I  think  it  cannot  be  my  affection  alone,  or  the  magic  of  my 
childish  memory,  which  makes  me  think,  after  all  these  years 
and  all  the  countries  I  have  travelled  in,  and  all  the  women  I 
have  seen,  that  my  darling  mother,  though  so  little  known 
and  so  little  loved,  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world. 

Even  yet  I  cannot  but  wonder  that  other  people,  my  father 
especially,  did  not  see  her  with  my  eyes.  I  think  he  was  fond 
of  her  after  his  own  fashion,  but  there  was  a  kind  of  involun- 
tary contempt  in  his  affection,  which  could  not  conceal  itself 
from  my  quick  little  eyes.  She  was  visibly  afraid  of  him,  and 
was  always  nervous  and  timid  when  he  came  into  our  room 
with  his  customary  salutation, 

"How  now,  Isabel?    And  how's  1his  child  of  yours?" 

From  my  earliest  childhood  I  noticed  that  he  always  spoke 
of  me  as  if  I  had  been  my  mother's  child,  not  his,  and  perhaps 
this  affected  my  feeling  for  him  from  the  first. 

I  was  in  terror  of  his  loud  voice  and  rough  manner,  the  big 
bearded  man  with  the  iron  grey  head  and  the  smell  of  the  fresh 
air  about  his  thick  serge  clothes.  It  was  almost  as  if  I  had 
conceived  this  fear  before  my  birth,  and  had  brought  it  out 
of  the  tremulous  silence  of  my  mother's  womb. 

My  earliest  recollections  are  of  his  muffled  shout  from  the 
room  below,  "Keep  your  child  quiet,  will  you?"  when  I  was 
disturbing  him  over  his  papers  by  leaping  and  skipping  about 
the  floor.  If  he  came  upstairs  when  I  was  in  bed  I  would  dive 


MY  GIELHOOD  13 

under  the  bedclothes,  as  a  duck  dives  under  water,  and  only 
come  to  the  surface  when  he  was  gone.  I  am  sure  I  never 
kissed  my  father  or  climbed  on  to  his  knee,  and  that  during 
his  short  visits  to  our  room  I  used  to  hold  my  breath  and  hide 
my  head  behind  my  mother's  gown. 

I  think  my  mother  must  have  suffered  both  from  my  fear  of 
my  father  and  from  my  father's  indifference  to  me,  for  she 
made  many  efforts  to  reconcile  him  to  my  existence.  Some  of 
her  innocent  schemes,  as  I  recall  them  now,  seem  very  sweet 
but  very  pitiful.  She  took  pride,  for  instance,  in  my  hair, 
which  was  jet  black  even  when  I  was  a  child,  and  she  used  to 
part  it  in  the  middle  and  brush  it  smooth  over  my  forehead  in 
the  manner  of  the  Madonna,  and  one  day,  when  my  father  was 
with  us,  she  drew  me  forward  and  said : 

"Don't  you  think  our  Mary  is  going  to  be  very  pretty? 
A  little  like  the  pictures  of  Our  Lady,  perhaps — don't  you 
think  so,  Daniel?" 

"Whereupon  my  father  laughed  rather  derisively  and 
answered : 

"Pretty,  is  she?    Like  the  Virgin,  eh?    Well,  well!" 

I  was  always  fond  of  music,  and  my  mother  used  to  teach 
me  to  sing  to  a  little  upright  piano  which  she  was  allowed  to 
keep  in  her  room,  and  on  another  day  she  said: 

"Do  you  know  our  Mary  has  such  a  beautiful  voice,  dear? 
So  sweet  and  pure  that  when  I  close  my  eyes  I  could  almost 
think  it  is  an  angel  singing." 

Whereupon  my  father  laughed  as  before,  and  answered : 

"A  voice,  has  she?  Like  an  angel's,  is  it?  What  next,  I 
wonder?  " 

My  mother  made  most  of  my  clothes.  There  was  no  need 
for  her  to  do  so,  but  in  the  absence  of  household  duties  I 
suppose  it  stimulated  the  tenderness  which  all  mothers  feel 
in  covering  the  little  limbs  they  love;  and  one  day,  having 
made  a  velvet  frock  for  me,  from  a  design  in  an  old  pattern 
book  of  coloured  prints,  which  left  the  legs  and  neck  and  arms 
very  bare,  she  said: 

"Isn't  our  Mary  a  little  lady?  But  she  will  always  look 
like  a  lady,  whatever  she  is  dressed  in. ' ' 

And  then  my  father  laughed  still  more  contemptuously  and 
replied, 

"Her  grandmother  weeded  turnips  in  the  fields  though — 
ninepence  a  day  dry  days,  and  sixpence  all  weathers." 

My  mother  was  deeply  religious,  never  allowing  a  day  to 


14  •  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

pass  without  kneeling  on  her  prayer-stool  before  the  image  of 
the  Virgin,  and  one  day  I  heard  her  tell  my  father  that  when 
I  was  a  little  mite,  scarcely  able  to  speak,  she  found  me  kneeling 
in  my  cot  with  my  doll  perched  up  before  me,  moving  my  lips 
as  if  saying  my  prayers  and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling  with  a 
rapt  expression. 

"But  she  has  always  had  such  big,  beautiful,  religious  eyes, 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  becomes  a  Nun  some  day !  " 

"A  nun,  eh?  Maybe  so.  But  I  take  no  stock  in  the  nun 
business  anyway,"  said  my  father. 

Whereupon  my  mother's  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  saying 
"No,  dearest,"  but  her  dear,  sweet  pride  was  crushed  and  she 
could  go  no  farther. 

FOURTH  CHAPTER 

THERE  was  a  whole  colony  on  the  ground  floor  of  our  house 
who,  b'ke  my  father,  could  not  reconcile  themselves  to  my 
existence,  and  the  head  of  them  was  Aunt  Bridget. 

She  had  been  married,  soon  after  the- marriage  of  my  mother, 
to  one  Colonel  MacLeod,  a  middle-aged  officer  on  half-pay, 
a  widower,  a  Belfast  Irishman,  and  a  tavern  companion  of 
my  maternal  grandfather.  But  the  Colonel  had  died  within 
a  year,  leaving  Aunt  Bridget  with  one  child  of  her  own,  a 
girl,  as  well  as  a  daughter  of  his  wife  by  the  former  marriage. 
As  this  happened  about  the  time  of  my  birth,  when  it  became 
obvious  that  my  mother  was  to  be  an  invalid,  my  father  invited 
Aunt  Bridget  to  come  to  his  house  as  housekeeper,  and  she 
came,  and  brought  her  children  with  her. 

Her  rule  from  the  outset  had  been  as  hard  as  might  have 
been  expected  from  one  wrho  prided  herself  on  her  self-com- 
mand— a  quality  that  covered  everybody,  including  my  mother 
and  me,  and  was  only  subject  to  softening  in  favour  of  her 
own  offspring. 

Aunt  Bridget's  own  daughter,  a  year  older  than  myself, 
was  a  fair  child  with  light  grey  eyes,  round  cheeks  of  the  colour 
of  ripe  apples,  and  long  yellow  hair  that  was  carefully  combed 
and  curled.  Her  name  was  Betsy,  which  was  extended  by 
her  mother  to  Betsy  Beauty.  She  was  usually  dressed  in  a 
muslin  frock  with  a  sash  of  light  blue  ribbon,  and  being 
understood  to  be  delicate  was  constantly  indulged  and  nearly 
always  eating,  and  giving  herself  generally  the  airs  of  the 
daughter  of  the  house. 

Aunt  Bridget's  step- daughter,  ten  years  older,  was  a  gaunt, 


MY  GIRLHOOD  15 

ungainly  girl  with  red  hair  and  irregular  features.  Her  name 
was  Nessy,  and,  having  an  instinctive  sense  of  her  dependent 
position,  she  was  very  humble  and  subservient  and,  as  Tommy 
the  Mate  used  to  say,  "as  smooth  as  an  old  threepenny  bit" 
to  the  ruling  powers,  which  always  meant  my  Aunt,  but  spite- 
ful, insolent,  and  acrid  to  anybody  who  was  outside  my  Aunt's 
favour,  which  usually  meant  me. 

Between  my  cousin  and  myself  there  were  constant  feuds, 
in  which  Nessy  MacLeod  never  failed  to  take  the  side  of  Betsy 
Beauty,  while  my  poor  mother  became  a  target  for  the  shafts 
of  Aunt  Bridget,  who  said  I  was  a  wilful,  wicked,  underhand 
little  vixen,  and  no  wonder,  seeing  how  disgracefully  I  was 
indulged,  and  how  shockingly  I  was  being  brought  up. 

These  skirmishes  went  on  for  a  considerable  time  without 
consequences,  but  they  came  at  last  to  a  foolish  climax  which 
led  to  serious  results. 

Even  my  mother's  life  had  its  gleams  of  sunshine,  and 
flowers  were  a  constant  joy  to  her.  Old  Tommy,  the  gardener, 
was  aware  of  this,  and  every  morning  sent  up  a  bunch  of 
them,  freshly  cut  and  wet  with  the  dew.  But  one  day  in  the 
spring  he  could  not  do  so,  being  out  in  the  dubs  of  the  Curragh, 
cutting  peat  for  the  fires.  Therefore  I  undertook  to  supply 
the  deficiency,  having  already,  with  the  large  solemnity  of 
six,  begun  to  consider  it  my  duty  to  take  charge  of  my  mother. 

"Never  mind,  mammy,  I'll  setch  some  slowers  sor  you,"  I 
said  (every  /  being  an  s  in  those  days),  and  armed  with  a  pair 
of  scissors  I  skipped  down  to  the  garden. 

I  had  chosen  a  bed  of  annuals  because  they  were  bright  and 
fragrant,  and  was  beginning  to  cut  some  "gilvers"  when 
Xessy  MacLeod,  who  had  been  watching  from  a  window,  came 
bouncing  down  me. 

"Mary  O'Neill,  how  dare  you?"  cried  Nessy.  "You  wilful, 
wicked,  underhand  little  vixen,  what  will  your  Aunt  Bridget 
say?  Don't  you  know  this  is  Betsy  Beauty's  bed,  and  nobody 
else  is  to  touch  it?" 

I  began  to  excuse  myself  on  the  ground  of  my  mother  and 
Tommy  the  Mate,  but  Nessy  would  hear  no  such  explanation. 

"Your  mamma  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  know  quite 
well  that  your  Aunt  Bridget  manages  everything  in  this  house, 
and  nothing  can  be  done  without  her." 

Small  as  I  was  that  was  too  much  for  me.  Somewhere  in  my 
little  heart  there  had  long  been  a  secret  pang  of  mortified 


16 

pride — how  born  I  do  not  know — at  seeing  Aunt  Bridget  take 
the  place  of  my  mother,  and  now,  choking  with  vexation  but 
without  saying  a  word,  I  swept  off  the  heads  of  all  the  flowers 
in  the  bed,  and  with  my  arms  full  of  them — ten  times  more 
than  I  wanted — I  sailed  back  to  my  mother's  room. 

Inside  two  minutes  there  was  a  fearful  tumult.  I  thought 
I  was  doomed  to  punishment  when  I  heard  the  big  bunch  of 
keys,  which  Aunt  Bridget  kept  suspended  from  her  waist,  come 
jingling  up  the  stairs,  but  it  was  my  poor  mother  who  paid 
the  penalty. 

"Isabel,"  cried  Aunt  Bridget,  "I  hope  you  are  satisfied 
with  your  child  at  last." 

"What  has  Mary  been  doing  now,  dear?"  said  my  mother. 

"Don't  ask  me  what  she  has  been  doing.  You  know  quite 
well,  or  if  you  don't  you  ought  to." 

My  mother  glanced  at  the  flowers  and  she  seemed  to  under- 
stand what  had  happened,  for  her  face  fell  and  she  said 
submissively, 

"Mary  has  done  wrong,  but  I  am  sure  she  is  sorry  and  will 
never  do  it  again." 

"Sorry,  indeed!"  cried  my  Aunt.  "Not  she  sorry.  And 
she'll  do  it  again  at  the  very  next  opportunity.  The  vixen! 
The  little  wilful,  underhand  vixen !  But  what  wonder  if 
children  go  wrong  when  their  own  mothers  neglect  to  correct 
them." 

"I  daresay  you  are  quite  right,  dear  Bridget — you  are 
always  right,"  said  my  mother  in  a  low,  grave  voice.  "But 
then  I  'm  not  very  well,  and  Mary  is  all  I  have,  you  know. ' ' 

My  mother  was  in  tears  by  this  time,  but  Aunt  Bridget 
was  not  content  with  her  triumph.  Sweeping  downstairs  she 
carried  her  complaint  to  my  father,  who  ordered  that  I  was 
to  be  taken  out  of  my  mother's  charge  on  the  ground  that  she 
was  incapable  of  attending  to  my  upbringing — a  task  which, 
being  assigned  to  my  Aunt  Bridget,  provided  that  I  should 
henceforward  live  on  the  ground  floor  and  eat  oaten  cake  and 
barley  bonnag  and  sleep  alone  in  the  cold  room  over  the  hall 
while  Betsy  Beauty  ate  wheaten  bread  and  apple  tart  and 
slept  with  her  mother  in  the  room  over  the  kitchen  in  which 
they  always  kept  a  fire. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  17 


FIFTH  CHAPTER 

THE  altered  arrangements  were  a  cause  of  grief  to  my  mother, 
but  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  for  me  they  had  certain  com- 
pensations. One  of  them  was  the  greater  ease  with  which  I 
could  slip  out  to  Tommy  the  Mate,  who  had  been  a  sailor 
before  he  was  a  gardener,  and  was  still  a  fine  old  salt,  with 
grizzled  beard  and  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  a  merry  twinkle  in 
what  he  called  his  "starboard"  eye. 

I  think  Tommy  was  one  of  the  few  about  my  father 's  house 
who  were  really  fond  of  me.  but  perhaps  that  was  mainly 
because  he  loathed  Aunt  Bridget.  He  used  to  call  her  the 
Big  Woman,  meaning  that  she  was  the  master  and  mistress 
of  everything  and  everybody  about  the  place.  "When  he  was 
told  of  any  special  piece  of  her  tyranny  to  servant  or  farm- 
hand he  used  to  say:  "Aw,  well,  she'll  die  for  all";  and  when 
he  heard  how  she  had  separated  me  from  my  mother,  who 
had  nothing  else  to  love  or  live  for,  he  spat  sideways  out  of  his 
mouth  and  said : 

"Our  Big  Woman  is  a  wicked  devil,  I'm  thinking,  and  I 
wouldn't  trust  [shouldn't  wonder]  but  she'll  burn  in  hell." 

What  definite  idea  I  attached  to  this  denunciation  I  do 
not  now  recall,  but  I  remember  that  it  impressed  me  deeply, 
and  that  many  a  night  afterwards,  during  the  miserable  half- 
hours  before  I  fell  asleep  with  my  head  under  the  clothes  in  the 
cold  bedroom  over  the  hall  to  which  (as  Nessy  MacLeod  had 
told  me)  the  bad  fairies  came  for  bad  children,  I  repeated  the 
strange  words  again  and  again. 

Another  compensation  was  the  greater  opportunity  I  had 
for  cultivating  an  acquaintance  which  I  had  recently  made 
with  the  doctor's  son,  when  he  came  with  his  father  on  visits 
to  my  mother.  As  soon  as  the  hoofs  of  the  horse  were  heard 
on  the  gravel,  and  before  the  bell  could  be  rung,  I  used  to 
dart  away  on  tiptoe,  fly  through  the  porch,  climb  into  the 
gig  and  help  the  boy  to  hold  the  reins  while  his  father  was 
upstairs. 

This  led  to  what  I  thought  a  great  discovery.  It  was  about 
my  mother.  I  had  always  known  my  mother  was  sick,  but 
now  I  got  a  "skute"  (as  old  Tommy  used  to  say)  into  the 
cause  of  .her  illness.  It  was  a  matter  of  milk.  The  doctor's 
boy  had  heard  his  father  saying  so.  If  my  mother  could  only 


18  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

have  milk  morning,  noon  and  night,  every  day  and  all  day, 
' '  there  wouldn  't  be  nothing  the  matter  with  her. ' ' 

This,  too,  impressed  me  deeply,  and  the  form  it  took  in 
my  mind  was  that  "mammy  wasn't  sed  enough,"  a  conclusion 
that  gained  colour  from  the  fact  that  I  saw  Betsy  Beauty 
perched  up  in  a  high  chair  in  the  dining-room  twice  or  thrice 
a  day,  drinking  nice  warm  milk  fresh  from  the  cow.  We  had 
three  cows,  I  remember,  and  to  correct  the  mischief  of  my 
mother's  illness,  I  determined  that  henceforth  she  should  not 
have  merely  more  of  our  milk — she  should  have  all  of  it. 

Losing  no  time  in  carrying  my  intentions  into  effect,  I 
crept  into  the  dairy  as  soon  as  the  dairymaid  had  brought 
in  the  afternoon's  milking.  There  it  was,  still  frothing  and 
bubbling  in  three  great  bowls,  and  taking  up  the  first  of  them 
in  my  little  thin  arms — goodness  knows  how — I  made  straight 
for  my  mother 's  room. 

But  hardly  had  I  climbed  half-way  up  the  stairs,  puffing 
and  panting  under  my  burden,  when  I  met  Nessy  MacLeod 
coming  down,  and  she  fell  on  me  with  her  usual  reproaches. 

' '  Mary  O  'Neill,  you  wilful,  underhand  little  vixen,  whatever 
are  you  doing  with  the  milk  ? ' ' 

Being  in  no  mood  for  explanations  I  tried  to  push  past,  but 
Xessy  prevented  me. 

"No,  indeed,  you  shan't  go  a  step  further.  What  will 
your  Aunt  Bridget  say?  Take  the  milk  back,  miss,  this  very 
minute. ' ' 

Nessy 's  loud  protest  brought  Betsy  Beauty  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  and  in  a  moment  my  cousin,  looking  more  than  ever 
like  a  painted  doll  in  her  white  muslin  dress  with  a  large 
blue  bow  in  her  yellow  hair,  had  run  upstairs  to  assist  her 
step-sister. 

I  was  now  between  the  two,  the  one  above  and  the  other 
below,  and  they  laid  hold  of  my  bowl  to  take  it  from  me. 
They  tugged  and  I  resisted  and  there  was  a  struggle  in  which 
the  milk  was  in  danger  of  being  spilled. 

' '  She 's  a  stubborn  little  thing  and  she  ought  to  be  whipped, ' ' 
cried  Nessy. 

' '  She 's  stealing  my  milk,  and  I  '11  tell  mamma, ' '  said  Betsy. 

' '  Tell  her  then, ' '  I  cried,  and  in  a  burst  of  anger  at  finding 
myself  unable  to  recover  control  of  my  bowl  I  swept  it  round 
and  flung  its  contents  over  my  cousin's  head,  thereby  drench- 
ing her  with  the  frothing  milk  and  making  the  staircase  to 
run  like  a  river  of  whitewash. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  19 

Of  course  there  was  a  fearful  clamour.  Betsy  Beauty 
shrieked  and  Nessy  bellowed,  whereupon  Aunt  Bridget  came 
racing  from  her  parlour,  while  my  mother,  white  and 
trembling,  halted  to  the  door  of  her  room. 

' '  Mally,  Mally,  what  have  you  done  ? ' '  cried  my  mother,  but 
Aunt  Bridget  found  no  need  of  questions.  After  running 
upstairs  to  her  dripping  daughter,  wiping  her  down  with  a 
handkerchief,  calling  her  "my  poor  darling,"  and  saying, 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that 
little  vixen?"  she  fell  on  my  mother  with  bitter  up- 
braidings. 

' '  Isabel,  I  hope  you  see  now  what  your  minx  of  a  child  is — 
the  little  spiteful  fury!" 

By  this  time  I  had  dropped  my  empty  bowl  on  the  stairs 
and  taken  refuge  behind  my  mother's  gown,  but  I  heard 
her  timid  voice  trying  to  excuse  me,  and  saying  something 
about  my  cousin  and  a  childish  quarrel. 

' '  Childish  quarrel,  indeed ! ' '  cried  my  Aunt ;  ' '  there 's  noth- 
ing childish  about  that  little  imp,  nothing.  And  what's  jmore, 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  you,  Isabel,  if  you  will  never  again  have 
the  assurance  to  speak  of  my  Betsy  Beauty  in  the  same  breath 
with  a  child  of  yours. ' ' 

That  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  My  little  heart  was 
afire  at  the  humiliation  put  upon  my  mother.  So  stepping 
out  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  I  shouted  down  in  my  shrillest 
treble : 

"Your  Betsy  Beauty  is  a  wicked  devil,  and  I  wouldn't  trust 
but  she '11  burn  in  hell!" 

Never,  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life,  shall  I  forget  the  effect 
of  that  pronouncement.  One  moment  Aunt  Bridget  stood 
speechless  in  the  middle  of  the  stairs,  as  if  all  breath  had 
been  broken  out  of  her.  Then,  ghastly  white  and  without 
a  word,  she  came  flying  up  at  me,  and,  before  I  could  recover 
my  usual  refuge,  she  caught  me,  slapped  me  on  the  cheek 
and  boxed  both  my  ears. 

I  do  not  remember  if  I  cried,  but  I  know  my  mother  did, 
and  that  in  the  midst  of  the  general  tumult  my  father  came 
out  of  his  room  and  demanded  in  a  loud  voice,  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  whole  house,  to  be  told  what  was  going  on. 

Aunt  Bridget  told  him,  with  various  embellishments,  which 
my  mother  did  not  attempt  to  correct,  and  then,  knowing 
she  was  in  the  wrong,  she  began  to  wipe  her  eyes  with  her 


20  THE  WOMAN  THOU  G  A  VEST  ME 

wet  handkerchief,  and  to  say  she  could  not  live  any  longer 
where  a  child  was  encouraged  to  insult  her. 

' '  I  have  to  leave  this  house — I  have  to  leave  it  to-morrow, ' ' 
she  said. 

"You  don't  have  to  do  no  such  thing,"  cried  my  father. 
"But  I'm  just  crazy  to  see  if  a  man  can't  be  captain  in  his 
own  claim.  These  children  must  go  to  school.  They  must 
all  go — the  darned  lot  of  'em. ' ' 

SIXTH  CHAPTER 

BEFORE  I  speak  of  what  happened  at  school,  I  must  say  how 
and  when  I  first  became  known  to  the  doctor's  boy. 

It  was  during  the  previous  Christmastide.  On  Christmas 
Eve  I  awoke  in  the  dead  of  night  with  the  sense  of  awakening 
in  another  world.  The  church-bells  were  ringing,  and  there 
was  singing  outside  our  house,  under  the  window  of  my 
mother's  room.  After  listening  for  a  little  while  I  made  my 
voice  as  soft  as  I  could  and  said : 

"Mamma,  what  is  it?" 

"Hush,  dear!  It  is  the  "Waits.  Lie  still  and  listen,"  said 
my  mother. 

I  lay  as  long  as  my  patience  would  permit,  and  then  creeping 
over  to  the  window  I  saw  a  circle  of  men  and  women,  with 
lanterns,  and  the  frosty  air  smoking  about  their  red  faces. 
After  a  while  they  stopped  singing,  and  then  the  chain  of  our 
front  door  rattled,  and  I  heard  my  father's  loud  voice  asking 
the  singers  into  the  bouse. 

They  came  in,  and  when  I  was  back  in  bed,  I  heard  them 
talking  and  then  laughing  in  the  room  below,  with  Aunt 
Bridget  louder  than  all  the  rest,  and  when  I  asked  what  she 
was  doing  my  mother  told  me  she  was  serving  out  bunloaf 
and  sherry-wine. 

I  fell  asleep  before  the  incident  was  over,  but  as  soon  as  I 
awoke  in  the  morning  I  conceived  the  idea  of  singing  the  Waits 
myself.  Being  an  artful  little  thing  I  knew  that  my  plan 
would  be  opposed,  so  I  said  nothing  about  it,  but  I  got  my 
mother  to  play  and  sing  the  carol  I  had  heard  overnight, 
until  my  quick  ear  had  mastered  both  tune  and  words,  and 
when  darkness  fell  on  Christmas  night  I  proceeded  to  carry 
out  my  intention. 

In  the  heat  of  my  impatience  I  forgot  to  put  on  cloak  or  hat, 
and  stealing  ou,t  of  the  house  I  found  myself  in  the  carriage 


MY  GIRLHOOD  21 

drive  with  nothing  on  but  a  pair  of  thin  slippers  and  the  velvet 
frock  that  left  my  neck  and  arms  so  bare.  It  was  snowing,  and 
the  snow-flakes  were  whirling  round  me  and  making  me  dizzy, 
for  in  the  light  from  my  mother's  window  they  seemed  to 
come  up  from  the  ground  as  well  as  down  from  the  sky. 

When  I  got  out  of  the  light  of  the  window,  it  was  very  dark, 
and  I  could  only  see  that  the  chestnuts  in  the  drive  seemed 
to  have  white  blankets  on  them  which  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  hung  out  to  dry.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  got  to  the 
gate,  and  then  I  had  begun  to  be  nervous  and  to  have  half  a 
mind  to  turn  back.  But  the  thought  of  the  bunloaf  and  the 
sherry-wine  buoyed  me  up,  and  presently  I  found  myself  on 
the  high  road,  crossing  a  bridge  and  turning  down  a  lane  that 
led  to  the  sea,  whose  moaning  a  mile  away  was  the  only  sound 
I  could  hear. 

I  knew  quite  well  where  I  was  going  to.  I  was  going  to  the 
doctor's  house.  It  was  called  Sunny  Lodge,  and  it  was  on  the 
edge  of  Yellow  Gorse  Farm.  I  had  seen  it  more  than  once 
when  I  had  driven  out  in  the  carriage  with  my  mother,  and  had 
thought  how  sweet  it  looked  with  its  whitewashed  walls  and 
brown  thatched  roof  and  the  red  and  white  roses  which  grew 
over  the  porch. 

I  was  fearfully  cold  before  I  got  there.  The  snow  was  in  my 
slippers  and  down  my  neck  and  among  the  thickening  masses 
of  my  hair.  At  one  moment  I  came  upon  some  sheep  and 
lambs  that  were  sheltering  under  a  hedge,  and  they  bleated  in 
the  silence  of  the  night. 

But  at  last  I  saw  the  warm  red  windows  of  the  doctor's 
cottage,  and  coming  to  the  wicket  gate,  I  pushed  it  open 
though  it  was  clogged  with  snow,  and  stepped  up  to  the  porch. 
My  teeth  were  now  chattering  with  cold,  but  as  well  as  I 
could  I  began  to  sing,  and  in  my  thin  and  creachy  voice  I  had 
got  as  far  as — 

"Ch'ist  was  born  in  Bef-lem, 
Ch'ist  was  born  in  Bef-lem, 
Ch'ist  was  born  in  Bef-lem, 
An'  in  a  manger  laid.    .    .    .'* 

when  I  heard  a  rumbling  noise  inside  the  house. 

Immediately  afterwards  the  door  was  opened  upon  me, 
and  a  woman  whom  I  knew  to  be  the  doctor's  wife  looked 
down  into  my  face  with  an  expression  of  bewilderment,  and 
then  cried: 


22  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Goodness  gracious  me,  doctor — if  it  isn't  little  Mary 
O'Neill,  God  bless  her!" 

"Bring  her  in  at  once,  then,"  said  the  voice  of  Doctor 
Conrad  from  within,  and  at  the  next  moment  I  found  myself 
in  a  sort  of  kitchen-parlour  which  was  warm  with  a  glowing 
turf  fire  that  had  a  kettle  singing  over  it,  and  cosy  and  bright 
with  a  ragwork  hearth-rug,  a  dresser  full  of  blue  pottery  and 
a  sofa  settle  covered  with  red  cloth. 

I  suppose  the  sudden  change  to  a  warm  room  must  have 
caused  me  to  faint,  for  I  have  no  recollection  of  what  happened 
next,  except  that  I  was  sitting  on  somebody's  lap  and  that  she 
was  calling  me  boght  millish  (little  sweet)  and  veg-veen  (little 
dear)  while  she  rubbed  my  half-frozen  limbs  and  did  other 
things  that  were,  I  am  sure,  all  womanly  and  good. 

When  I  came  to  myself  Doctor  Conrad  was  saying  I  would 
have  to  sleep  there  that  night,  and  he  must  go  over  to  the 
Big  House  and  tell  my  mother  what  had  happened.  He  went, 
and  by  the  time  he  came  back,  I  had  been  bathed  in  a  dolly-tub 
placed  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  was  being  carried  upstairs  (in 
a  nightdress  many  sizes  too  large  for  me)  to  a  little  dimity- 
white  bedroom,  where  the  sweet  smelling  "scraas"  under  the 
sloping  thatch  of  the  roof  came  down  almost  to  my  face. 

I  know  nothing  of  what  happened  during  the  night,  except 
that  I  was  feeling  very  hot,  and  that  as  often  as  I  opened  my 
eyes  the  doctor's  wife  was  leaning  over  me  and  speaking  in  a 
soft  voice  that  seemed  far  away.  But  next  day  I  felt  cooler 
and  then  Aunt  Bridget  came  in  her  satin  mantle  and  big  black 
hat,  and  said  something,  while  standing  at  the  end  of  my  bed, 
about  people  paying  the  penalty  when  they  did  things  that 
were  sly  and  underhand. 

Towards  evening  I  was  much  easier,  and  when  the  doctor 
came  in  to  see  me  at  night  he  said : 

"How  are  we  this  evening?  Ah,  better,  I  see.  Distinctly 
better!" 

And  then  turning  to  his  wife  he  said : 

"No  need  to  stay  up  with  her  to-night,  Christian  Ann." 

"But  won't  the  boght  miUish  be  afraid  to  be  left  alone?" 
she  asked. 

I  said  I  shouldn't,  and  she  kissed  me  and  told  me  to  knock 
at  the  wall  if  I  wanted  anything.  And  then,  with  hej,  hus- 
band's arm  about  her  waist,  the  good  soul  left  me  to  myself . 

I  don't  know  how  I  knew,  but  I  did  know  that  that  house 
was  a  home  of  love.  I  don 't  know  how  I  knew,  but  I  did  know, 


MY  GIRLHOOD  23 

that  that  sweet  woman,  who  had  been  the  daughter  of  a  well- 
to-do  man,  had  chosen  the  doctor  out  of  all  the  men  in  the 
world  when  he  was  only  a  medical  student  fresh  from  Germany 
or  Switzerland.  I  don't  know  how  I  knew,  but  I  did  know, 
that  leaving  father  and  mother  and  a  sheltered  home  she  had 
followed  her  young  husband  when  he  first  came  to  Elian  with- 
out friends  or  connections,  and  though  poor  then  and  poor  still, 
she  had  never  regretted  it.  I  don't  know  how  I  knew,  but  I 
did  know,  that  all  this  was  the  opposite  of  what  had  happened 
to  my  own  dear  mother,  who  having  everything  yet  had  nothing, 
while  this  good  creature  having  nothing  yet  had  all. 

SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

WHEN  I  awoke  next  morning  the  sun  was  shining,  and,  after 
my  hair  had  been  brushed  smooth  over  my  forehead,  I  was 
sitting  up  in  bed,  eating  for  breakfast  the  smallest  of  bantam 
eggs  with  the  smallest  of  silver  spoons,  when  the  door  opened 
with  a  bang  and  a  small  figure  tumbled  into  my  room. 

It  was  a  boy,  two  years  older  than  myself.  He  wore  a  grey 
Norfolk  jacket  and  knickerbockers,  but  the  peculiarity  of  his 
dress  was  a  white  felt  hat  of  enormous  size,  which,  being 
soiled  and  turned  down  in  the  brim,  and  having  a  hole  in  the 
crown  with  a  crop  of  his  brown  hair  sticking  through  it,  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  a  damaged  mushroom. 

Except  that  on  entering  he  tipped  up  his  head  so  that  I  saw 
his  face,  which  was  far  from  beautiful  and  yet  had  two  big  blue 
eyes — as  blue  as  the  bluest  sea — he  took  no  notice  of  my 
presence,  but  tossed  a  somersault  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
screwed  his  legs  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  vaulted  over  a  table 
and  finally  stood  on  his  hands  with  his  legs  against  the  wall 
opposite  to  my  bed,  and  his  inverted  countenance  close  to 
the  carpet. 

In  this  position,  in  which  he  was  clearly  making  a  point  of 
remaining  as  long  as  possible,  while  his  face  grew  very  red,  we 
held  our  first  conversation.  I  had  hitherto  sat  propped  up  as 
quiet  as  a  mouse,  but  now  I  said  : 

"Little  boy,  what's  your  name?" 

"Mart,"  was  the  answer. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"Spitzbergen." 

I  cannot  remember  that  this  intelligence  astonished  me,  for 
when  the  inverted  face  had  become  scarlet,  and  the  legs  went 


24  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

down  and  the  head  came  up,  and  my  visitor  tossed  several 
somersaults  over  the  end  of  my  bed,  to  the  danger  of  my 
breakfast  tray,  and  then,  without  a  word  more,  tumbled  out 
of  the  room,  I  was  still  watching  in  astonishment. 

I  did  not  know  at  that  time  that  these  were  the  ways  which 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world  have  always  been  employed  by 
savages  and  boys  when  they  desire  to  commend  themselves  to 
the  female  of  their  kind,  so  that  when  the  doctor's  wife  came 
smiling  upstairs  I  asked  her  if  the  little  boy  who  had  been  to 
see  me  was  not  quite  well. 

"Bless  you,  yes,  dear,  but  that's  his  way,"  she  said,  and  then 
she  told  me  all  about  him. 

His  name  was  Martin  Conrad  and  he  was  her  only  child. 
His  hat,  which  had  awakened  my  interest,  was  an  old  one  of 
his  father's,  and  it  was  the  last  thing  he  took  off  when  he 
undressed  for  bed  at  night  and  the  first  thing  he  put  on  in  the 
morning.  When  the  hole  came  into  its  crown  his  mother  had 
tried  to  hide  it  away  but  he  had  always  found  it,  and  when 
she  threw  it  into  the  river  he  had  fished  it  out  again. 

He  was  the  strangest  boy,  full  of  the  funniest  fancies.  He 
used  to  say  that  before  he  was  born  he  lived  in  a  tree  and  was 
the  fellow  who  turned  on  the  rain.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  could  be  educated,  and  every  morning  on  being  awakened, 
he  said  he  was  "sorry  he  ever  started  this  going  to  school." 
As  a  consequence  he  could  not  read  or  write  as  well  as  other 
boys  of  his  age,  and  his  grammar  was  still  that  of  the  peasant 
people  with  whom  he  loved  to  associate. 

Chief  among  these  was  our  gardener,  old  Tommy  the  Mate, 
who  lived  in  a  mud  cabin  on  the  shore  and  passed  the  doctor 's 
house  on  his  way  to  work.  Long  ago  Tommy  had  told  the 
boy  a  tremendous  story.  It  was  about  Arctic  exploration  and 
an  expedition  he  had  joined  in  search  of  Franklin.  This  had 
made  an  overpowering  impression  on  Martin,  who  for  months 
afterwards  would  stand  waiting  at  the  gate  until  Tommy  was 
going  by,  and  then  say : 

"Been  to  the  North  Pole  to-day,  Tommy?" 

Whereupon  Tommy's  "starboard  eye"  would  blink  and  he 
would  answer: 

"Not  to-day  boy.  I  don't  go  to  the  North  Pole  iifbre  nor 
twice  a  day  now." 

"Don't  you,  though?"  the  boy  would  say,  and  this  would 
happen  every  morning. 

But  later  on  Martin  conceived  the  idea  that  the  North  Pole 


MY  GIRLHOOD  25 

was  the  locality  immediately  surrounding  his  father's  house, 
and  every  day  he  would  set  out  on  voyages  of  exploration 
over  the  garden,  the  road  and  the  shore,  finding,  by  his  own 
account,  a  vast  world  of  mysterious  things  and  undiscovered 
places.  By  some  means — nobody  knew  how — the  boy  who 
could  not  learn  his  lessons  studied  his  father's  German  atlas, 
and  there  was  not  a  name  in  it  north  of  Spitzbergen  which  he 
had  not  got  by  heart.  He  transferred  them  all  to  Elian,  so 
that  the  Sky  Hill  became  Greenland,  and  the  Black  Head 
became  Franz  Josef  Land,  and  the  Nun 's  Well  became  Behring 
Strait,  and  Martha's  Gullet  became  New  Siberia,  and  St. 
Mary 's  Rock,  with  the  bell  anchored  on  it,  became  the  pivot  of 
the  earth  itself. 

He  could  swim  like  a  fish  and  climb  a  rock  like  a  lizard,  and 
he  kept  a  log-book,  on  the  back  pages  of  the  Doctor's  book  of 
visits,  which  he  called  his  "diarrhea."  And  now  if  you  lost 
him  you  had  only  to  look  up  to  the  ridge  of  the  roof,  or  perhaps 
on  to  the  chimney  stack,  which  he  called  his  crow's  nest,  and 
there  you  found  him,  spying  through  his  father's  telescope  and 
crying  out : 

''Look-out  ahead!  Ice  floes  from  eighty-six  latitude  four- 
teen point  north,  five  knots  to  the  larboard  bow." 

His  mother  laughed  until  she  cried  when  she  told  me  all  this, 
but  there  is  no  solemnity  like  that  of  a  child,  and  to  me  it  was 
a  marvellous  story.  I  conceived  a  deep  admiration  for  the 
doctor's  boy,  and  saw  myself  with  eyes  of  worship  walking 
reverently  by  his  side.  I  suppose  my  poor  lonely  heart  was 
hungering  after  comradeship,  for  being  a  sentimental  little 
ninny  I  decided  to  offer  myself  to  the  doctor's  boy  as  his  sister. 

The  opportunity  was  dreadfully  long  in  coming.  It  did  not 
come  until  the  next  morning,  when  the  door  of  my  room  flew 
open  with  a  yet  louder  bang  than  before,  and  the  boy  entered 
in  a  soap-box  on  wheels,  supposed  to  be  a  sledge,  and  drawn 
by  a  dog,  an  Irish  terrier,  which  being  red  had  been  called 
William  Rufus.  His  hat  was  tied  over  his  ears  with  a  tape 
from  his  mother's  apron,  and  he  wore  a  long  pair  of  his  father's 
knitted  stockings  which  covered  his  boots  and  came  up  to 
his  thighs. 

He  did  not  at  first  take  any  more  notice  of  me  than  on  the 
previous  day,  but  steering  his  sledge  round  the  room  he  shouted 
to  his  dog  that  the  chair  by  the  side  of  my  bed  was  a  glacier 
and  the  sheep-skin  rug  was  floating  ice. 

After  a  while  we  began  to  talk,  and  then,  thinking  my  time 


26  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

had  come,  I  tried  to  approach  my  subject.  Being  such  a  clever 
little  woman  I  went  artfully  to  work,  speaking  first  about 
my  father,  my  mother,  my  cousin,  Nessy  MacLeod,  and  even 
Aunt  Bridget,  with  the  intention  of  showing  how  rich  I  was 
in  relations,  so  that  he  might  see  how  poor  he  was  himself. 

I  felt  myself  a  bit  of  a  hypocrite  in  all  this,  but  the  doctor's 
boy  did  not  know  that,  and  I  noticed  that  as  I  passed  my 
people  in  review  he  only  said  "Is  she  any  good?"  or  "Is  he 
a  stunner?" 

At  length  my  great  moment  came  and  with  a  fluttering 
heart  I  took  it. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  sister?"  I  said. 

"Not  me!"  said  the  doctor's  boy,  with  a  dig  of  emphasis 
on  the  last  word  which  cut  me  to  the  quick. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  one?" 

"Sisters  isn't  no  good,"  said  the  doctor's  boy,  and  he 
instanced  "chaps"  at  school — Jimmy  Christopher  and  others 
— whose  sisters  were  afraid  of  everything — lobsters  and  crabs 
and  even  the  sea. 

I  knew  I  was  as  timid  as  a  hare  myself,  but  my  lonely  little 
heart  was  beginning  to  bleed,  and  as  well  as  I  could  for  my 
throat  which  was  choking  me,  I  said : 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  sea — not  crabs  neither. " 

In  a  moment  the  big  mushroom  hat  was  tipped  aside  and 
the  sea-blue  eyes  looked  aslant  at  me. 

"Isn't  you,  though?" 

"No." 

That  did  it.  I  could  see  it  did.  And  when  a  minute  after- 
wards, I  invited  the  doctor 's  boy  into  bed,  he  came  in,  stockings 
and  all,  and  sat  by  my  right  side,  while  William  Rufus,  who  had 
formed  an  instant  attachment  for  me,  lay  on  my  left  with  his 
muzzle  on  my  lap. 

Later  the  same  day,  my  bedroom  door  being  open,  so  that 
I  might  call  downstairs  to  the  kitchen,  I  heard  the  doctor's 
boy  telling  his  mother  what  I  was.  I  was  a  ' '  stunner. ' ' 

EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

FROM  that  day  forward  the  doctor's  boy  considered  that  I  be- 
longed to  him,  but  not  until  I  was  sent  to  school,  with  my  cousin 
and  her  stepsister,  did  he  feel  called  upon  to  claim  his  property, 
It  was  a  mixed  day-school  in  the  village,  and  it  was  con- 
trolled by  a  Board  which  had  the  village  butcher  as  its  chair- 


MY  GIRLHOOD  27 

man.  The  only  teacher  was  a  tall  woman  of  thirty,  who  plaited 
her  hair,  which  was  of  the  colour  of  flax,  into  a  ridiculous- 
looking  crown  on  the  top  of  her  head.  But  her  expression,  I 
remember,  was  one  of  perpetual  severity,  and  when  she  spoke 
through  her  thin  lips  she  clipped  her  words  with  great  rapidity, 
as  if  they  had  been  rolls  of  bread  which  were  being  chopped  in 
a  charity  school. 

Afterwards  I  heard  that  she  owed  her  position  to  Aunt 
Bridget,  who  had  exercised  her  influence  through  the  chair- 
man, by  means  of  his  account  with  the  Big  House.  Perhaps 
she  thought  it  her  duty  to  display  her  gratitude.  Certainly 
she  lost  no  time  in  showing  me  that  my  character  had  gone 
to  school  before  me,  for  in  order  that  I  might  be  directly 
under  her  eye,  she  placed  me  in  the  last  seat  in  the  lowest 
class,  although  my  mother's  daily  teaching  would  have  entitled 
me  to  go  higher. 

I  dare  say  I  was,  as  Father  Dan  used  to  say,  as  full  of 
mischief  as  a  goat,  and  I  know  I  was  a  chatterbox,  but  I  do 
not  think  I  deserved  the  fate  that  followed. 

One  day,  not  more  than  a  week  after  we  had  been  sent  to 
school,  I  held  my  slate  in  front  of  my  face  while  I  whispered 
something  to  the  girl  beside  and  the  girl  behind  me.  Both 
began  to  titter. 

"Silence!"  cried  the  schoolmistress,  who  was  sitting  at  her 
desk,  but  I  went  on  whispering  and  the  girls  began  to  choke 
with  laughter. 

I  think  the  schoolmistress  must  have  thought  I  was  saying 
something  about  herself — making  game,  perhaps,  of  her  per- 
sonal appearance — for  after  a  moment  she  said,  in  her  rapid 
accents : 

"Mary  O'Neill,  please  repeat  what  you  have  just  been 
saying. ' ' 

I  held  my  slate  yet  closer  to  my  face  and  made  no  answer. 

"Don't  you  hear,  miss?  Speak!  You've  a  tongue  in  your 
head,  haven't  you?" 

But  still  I  did  not  answer,  and  then  the  schoolmistress  said : 

"Mary  O'Neill,  come  forward." 

She  had  commanded  me  like  a  dog,  and  like  a  dog  I  was 
about  to  obey  when  I  caught  sight  of  Betsy  Beauty's  face, 
which,  beaming  with  satisfaction,  seemed  to  be  saying :  ' '  Now, 
we  shall  see. ' ' 

I  would  not  stir  after  that,  and  the  schoolmistress,  leaving 


28 

her  desk,  came  towards  me,  and  looking  darkly  into  my  face, 
said: 

"You  wilful  little  vixen,  do  you  think  you  can  trifle  with 
me  ?  Come  out,  miss,  this  very  moment. ' ' 

I  knew  where  that  language  came  from,  so  I  made  no 
morement. 

"Don't  you  hear?  Or  do  you  suppose  that  because  you 
are  pampered  and  spoiled  by  a  foolish  person  at  home,  you 
can  defy  msf" 

That  reflection  on  my  mother  settled  everything.  I  sat 
as  rigid  as  a  rock. 

Then  pale  as  a  whitewashed  wall,  and  with  her  thin  lips 
tightly  compressed,  the  schoolmistress  took  hold  of  me  to  drag 
me  out  of  my  seat,  but  with  my  little  nervous  fingers  I  clung 
to  the  desk  in  front  of  me,  and  as  often  as  she  tore  one  of  my 
hands  open  the  other  fixed  itself  afresh. 

4 'You  minx!  "We'll  see  who's  mistress  here.  .  .  .  Will 
none  of  you  big  girls  come  and  help  me  ? " 

With  the  utmost  alacrity  one  big  girl  from  a  back  bench 
came  rushing  to  the  schoolmistress'  assistance.  It  was  Nessy 
MacLeod,  and  together,  after  a  fierce  struggle,  they  tore  me 
from  my  desk,  like  an  ivy  branch  from  a  tree,  and  dragged 
me  into  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  classes.  By  this  time 
the  schoolmistress '  hands,  and  I  think  her  neck  were  scratched, 
and  from  that  cause  also  she  was  quivering  with  passion. 

"Stand  there,  miss,"  she  said,  "and  move  from  that  spot 
at  your  peril. " 

My  own  fury  was  now  spent,  and  in  the  dead  silence  which 
had  fallen  on  the  entire  school,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
shame  of  my  ignominious  position. 

"Children,"  cried  the  schoolmistress,  addressing  the  whole 
of  the  scholars,  "put  down  your  slates  and  listen." 

Then,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  breath  she  said, 
standing  by  my  side  and  pointing  down  to  me : 

"This  child  came  to  school  with  the  character  of  a  wilful, 
wicked  little  vixen,  and  she  has  not  belied  her  character.  By 
gross  disobedience  she  has  brought  herself  to  where  you 
see  her.  'Spare  the  rod,  spoil  the  child. '  is  a  scriptural  maxim, 
and  the  foolish  parents  who  ruin  their  children  by  over- 
indulgence deserve  all  that  comes  to  them.  But  there  is  no 
reason  why  other  people  should  suffer,  and,  small  as  this  child 
is  she  has  made  the  life  of  her  excellent  aunt  intolerable  by 
her  unlovable,  unsociable,  and  unchildlike  disposition.  Chil- 


MY  GIRLHOOD  29 

dren,  she  was  sent  to  school  to  be  corrected  of  her  faults, 
and  I  order  you  to  stop  your  lessons  while  sh«  is  publicly 
punished.  .  .  ." 

With  this  parade  of  the  spirit  of  justice,  the  schoolmistress 
stepped  back  and  left  me.  I  knew  what  she  was  doing — she 
was  taking  her  cane  out  of  her  desk  which  stood  by  the  wall. 
I  heard  the  desk  opened  with  an  impatient  clash  and  then 
closed  with  an  angry  bang.  I  was  as  sure  as  if  I  had  had  eyes 
in  the  back  of  my  head,  that  the  schoolmistress  was  holding 
the  cane  in  both  hands  and  bending  it  to  see  if  it  was  lithe 
and  limber. 

I  felt  utterly  humiliated.  Standing  there  with  all  eyes  upon 
me  I  was  conscious  of  the  worst  pain  that  enters  into  a  child's 
experience — the  pain  of  knowing  that  other  children  are  looking 
upon  her  degradation.  I  thought  of  Aunt  Bridget  and 
my  little  heart  choked  with  anger.  Then  I  thought  of  my 
mother  and  my  throat  throbbed  with  shame.  I  remembered 
what  my  mother  had  said  of  her  little  Mary  being  always  a 
little  lady,  and  I  felt  crushed  at  the  thought  that  I  was  about 
to  be  whipped  before1  all  the  village  children. 

At  home  I  had  been  protected  if  only  by  my  mother's  tears, 
but  here  I  was  alone,  and  felt  myself  to  be  so  little  and  helpless. 
But  just  as  my  lip  was  beginning  to  drop,  at  the  thought 
of  what  my  mother  would  suffer  if  she  saw  me  in  this  position 
of  infamy,  and  I  was  about  to  cry  out  to  the  schoolmistress : 
"Don't  beat  me!  Oh!  please  don't  beat  me!"  a  strange 
thing  happened,  which  turned  my  shame  into  surprise  and 
triumph. 

5  Through  the  mist  which  had  gathered  before  my  eyes  I 
saw  a  boy  coming  out  of  the  boys '  class  at  the  end  of  the  long 
room.  It  was  Martin  Conrad,  and  I  remember  that  he  rolled 
as  he  walked  like  old  Tommy  the  gardener.  Everybody  saw 
him,  and  the  schoolmistress  said  in  her  sharp  voice : 

"Martin  Conrad,  what  right  have  you  to  leave  your  place 
without  permission?  Go  back,  sir,  this  very  moment." 

Instead  of  going  back  Martin  came  on,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
dragged  his  big  soft  hat  out  of  the  belt  of  his  Norfolk  jacket 
and  with  both  hands  pulled  it  down  hard  on  his  head. 

"Go  back,  sir!"  cried  the  schoolmistress,  and  I  s&w  her 
step  towards  him  with  the  cane  poised  and  switching  in  the 
air.  as  if  about  to  strike. 

The  boy  said  nothing,  but  just  shaking  himself  like  a  big 
dog  he  dropped  his  head  and  butted  at  the  schoolmistress 


30  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

as  she  approached  him,  struck  her  somewhere  in  the  waist 
and  sent  her  staggering  and  gasping  against  the  wall. 

Then,  without  a  word,  he  took  my  hand,  as  something  that 
belonged  to  him,  and  before  the  schoolmistress  could  recover 
her  breath,  or  the  scholars  awake  from  their  astonishment, 
he  marched  me,  as  if  his  little  stocky  figure  had  been  sixteen 
feet  tall,  in  stately  silence  out  of  the  school. 

NINTH  CHAPTER 

I  WAS-  never  sent  back  to  school,  and  I  heard  that  Martin,  by 
order  of  the  butcher,  was  publicly  expelled.  This  was  a  cause 
of  distress  to  our  mothers,  who  thought  the  future  of  our  lives 
had  been  permanently  darkened,  but  I  cannot  say  that  it 
ever  stood  between  us  and  our  sunshine.  On  the  contrary 
it  occurred  that — Aunt  Bridget  having  washed  her  hands  of 
me,  and  Martin's  father  being  unable  to  make  up  his  mind 
what  to  do  with  him — we  found  ourselves  for  some  time  at 
large  and  were  nothing  loth  to  take  advantage  of  our  liberty, 
until  a  day  came  which  brought  a  great  disaster. 

One  morning  I  found  Martin  with  old  Tommy  the  Mate 
in  his  potting-shed,  deep  in  the  discussion  of  their  usual 
subject — the  perils  and  pains  of  Arctic  exploration,  when  you 
have  little  food  in  your  wallet  and  not  too  much  in  your 
stomach. 

' '  But  you  has  lots  of  things  when  you  gets  there — hams  and 
flitches  and  oranges  and  things — hasn't  you?"  said  Martin. 

"Never  a  ha'p'orth,"  said  Tommy.  "Nothing  but  glory. 
You  just  takes  your  Alping  stock  and  your  sleeping  sack 
and  your  bit  o '  biscuit  and  away  you  go  over  crevaxes  deeper 
nor  Martha's  gullet  and  mountains  higher  nor  Mount  Blank 
and  never  think  o'  nothing  but  doing  something  that  nobody's 
never  done  before.  My  goodness,  yes,  boy,  that's  the  way  of 
it  when  you  're  out  asploring.  '  Glory 's  waiting  for  me  '  says 
you,  and  on  you  go." 

At  that  great  word  I  saw  Martin's  blue  eyes  glisten  like 
the  sea  when  the  sun  is  shining  on  it;  and  then,  seeing  me 
for  the  first  time,  he  turned  back  to  old  Tommy  and  said : 

"I  s'pose  you  lets  women  go  with  you  when  you're  out 
asploring — women  and  girls?" 

' '  Never  a  woman, ' '  said  Tommy. 

"Not  never — not  if  they're  stunners?"  said  Martin. 

"Well,"  says   Tommy,   glancing   down   at  me,   while  his 


MY  GIRLHOOD  31 

starboard  eye  twinkled,  "I  won't  say  never — not  if  they're 
stunners. ' ' 

Next  day  Martin,  attended  by  William  Rufus,  arrived  at  our 
house  with  a  big  corn  sack  on  his  shoulder,  a  long  broom-handle 
in  his  hand,  a  lemonade  bottle  half  filled  with  milk,  a  large 
sea  biscuit  and  a  small  Union  Jack  which  came  from  the 
confectioner's  on  the  occasion  of  his  last  birthday. 

"Glory's  waiting  for  me — come  along,  shipmate,"  he  said 
in  a  mysterious  whisper,  and  without  a  word  of  inquiry,  I 
obeyed. 

He  gave  me  the  biscuit  and  I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my 
frock,  and  the  bottle  of  milk,  and  I  tied  it  to  my  belt,  and  then 
off  we  went,  with  the  dog  bounding  before  us. 

I  knew  he  was  going  to  the  sea,  and  my  heart  was  in  my 
mouth,  for  of  all  the  things  I  was  afraid  of  I  feared  the  sea 
most — a  terror  born  with  me,  perhaps,  on  the  fearful  night 
of  my  birth.  But  I  had  to  live  up  to  the  character  I  had 
given  myself  when  Martin  became  my  brother,  and  the  one 
dread  of  my  life  was  that,  finding  me  as  timid  as  other  girls, 
he  might  want  me  no  more. 

"We  reached  the  sea  by  a  little  bay,  called  Murphy's  Mouth, 
which  had  a  mud  cabin  that  stood  back  to  the  cliff  and  a  small 
boat  that  was  moored  to  a  post  on  the  shore.  Both  belonged 
to  Tommy  the  Mate,  who  was  a  "widow  man"  living  alone, 
and  therefore  there  were  none  to  see  us  when  we  launched 
the  boat  and  set  out  on  our  voyage.  It  was  then  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  tide,  which 
was  at  the  turn,  was  beginning  to  flow. 

I  had  never  been  in  a  boat  before,  but  I  dared  not  say 
anything  about  that,  and  after  Martin  had  fixed  the  bow 
oar  for  me  and  taken  the  stroke  himself,  I  spluttered  and 
plunged  and  made  many  blunders.  I  had  never  been  on  the 
sea  either,  and  almost  as  soon  as  we  shot  clear  of  the  shore  and 
were  lifted  on  to  the  big  waves,  I  began  to  feel  dizzy,  and 
dropped  my  oar,  with  the  result  that  it  slipped  through  the 
rollocks  and  was  washed  away.  Martin  saw  what  had  happened 
as  we  swung  round  to  his  rowing,  but  when  I  expected  him 
to  scold  me,  he  only  said : 

"Never  mind,  shipmate!  I  was  just  thinking  we  would 
do  better  with  one,"  and,  shipping  his  own  oar  in  the  stern 
of  the  boat,  he  began  to  scull. 

My  throat  was  hurting  me,  and  partly  from  shame  and 
partly  from  fear,  I  now  sat  forward,  with  William  Rufus  on 


32  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

my  lap,  and  said  as  little  as  possible.  But  Martin  was  in 
high  spirits,  and  while  his  stout  little  body  rolled  to  the  rocking 
of  the  boat  he  whistled  and  sang  and  shouted  messages  to  me 
over  his  shoulder. 

"My  gracious!  Isn't  this  what  you  call  ripping?"  he 
cried,  and  though  my  teeth  were  chattering,  I  answered  that 
it  was. 

"Some  girls — Jimmy  Christopher's  sister  and  Nessy  Mac- 
Leod and  Betsy  Beauty — would  be  frightened  to  come  asplor- 
ing,  wouldn't  they?" 

"Wouldn't  they?"  I  said,  and  I  laughed,  though  I  was 
trembling  down  to  the  soles  of  my  shoes. 

We  must  have  been  half  an  hour  out,  and  the  shore  seemed 
so  far  away  that  Murphy's  Mouth  and  Tommy's  cabin  and 
even  the  trees  of  the  Big  House  looked  like  something  I  had 
seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  when  he  turned 
his  head,  with  a  wild  light  in  his  eyes,  and  said : 

"See  the  North  Pole  out  yonder?" 

"Don't  I?"  I  answered,  though  I  was  such  a  practical  little 
person,  and  had  not  an  ounce  of  "dream"  in  me. 

I  knew  quite  well  where  he  was  going  to.  He  was  going 
to  St.  Mary's  Rock,  and  of  all  the  places  on  land  or  sea,  it  was 
the  place  I  was  most  afraid  of,  being  so  big  and  frowning,  an 
ugly  black  mass,  standing  twenty  to  thirty  feet  out  of  the 
water,  draped  like  a  coffin  in  a  pall,  with  long  fronds  of  sea- 
weed, and  corered,  save  at  high  water,  by  a  multitude  of  hungry 
sea-fowl. 

A  white  cloud  of  the  birds  rose  from  their  sleep  as  we 
approached,  and  wheeled  and  whistled  and  screamed  and  beat 
their  wings  over  our  heads.  I  wanted  to  scream  too,  but 
Martin  said: 

"My  gracious,  isn't  this  splendiferous?" 

"Isn't  it?"  I  answered,  and,  little  hypocrite  that  I  was,  I 
began  to  sing. 

I  remember  that  I  sang  one  of  Tommy's  sailor-songs, 
"Sail/,"  because  its  jolly  doggerel  was  set  to  such  a  jaunty 
tuna — 

"Oh  Satty's  the  gel  for  me, 
Our  Sally 's  the  gel  for  me, 
I'll  marry  the  gel  that  I  love  best 
When  I  come  back  from  sea." 


MY  GIRLHOOD  33 

My  pretence  of  happiness  was  shortlived,  for  at  the  next 
moment  I  made  another  mistake.  Drawing  up  his  boat  to 
a  ledge  of  the  rock,  and  laying  hold  of  our  painter,  Martin 
leapt  ashore,  and  then  held  out  his  hand  to  me  to  follow  him, 
but  in  fear  of  a  big  wave  I  held  back  when  I  ought  to  have 
jumped,  and  he  was -drenched  from  head  to  foot.  I  was 
ashamed,  and  thought  he  would  have  scolded  me,  but  he  only 
shook  himself  and  said : 

"That's  nothing!  We  don't  mind  a  bit  of  wet  when  we're 
out  asploring. ' ' 

My  throat  was  hurting  me  again  and  I  could  not  speak,  but 
without  waiting  for  me  to  answer  he  coiled  the  rope  about  my 
right  arm,  and  told  me  to  stay  where  I  was,  and  hold  fast 
to  the  boat,  while  he  climbed  the  rock  and  took  possession  of  it 
in  the  name  ef  the  king. 

"Do  or  die  we  allus  does  that  when  we're  out  asploring," 
he  said,  and  with  his  sack  over  his  shoulder,  his  broom-handle 
in  his  hand  and  his  little  Union  Jack  sticking  out  of  the  hole 
in  the  crown  of  his  hat,  he  clambered  up  the  crag  and  disap- 
peared over  the  top  of  it. 

Being  left  alone,  for  the  dog  had  followed  him,  my  nervous- 
ness increased  tenfold,  and  thinking  at  last  that  the  rising 
tide  was  about  to  submerge  the  ledge  on  which  I  stood,  I  tried 
in  my  fright  to  climb  the  cliff.  But  hardly  had  I  taken  three 
steps  when  my  foot  slipped  and  I  clutched  the  seaweed  to  save 
myself  from  falling,  with  the  result  that  the  boat's  rope  slid 
from  my  arm,  and  went  rip-rip-ripping  down  the  rock  until 
it  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  sea. 

I  saw  what  I  had  done,  and  I  screamed,  and  then  Martin's 
head  appeared  after  a  moment  on  the  ledge  above  me.  But 
it  was  too  late  for  him  to  do  anything,  for  the  boat  had  already 
drifted  six  yards  away,  and  just  when  I  thought  he  would 
have  shrieked  at  me  for  cutting  off  our  only  connection  with  the 
shore,  he  said: 

"Never  mind,  shipmate!  We  allus  expecs  to  lose  a  boat  or 
two  when  we're  out  asploring." 

I  was  silent  from  shame,  but  Martin,  having  hauled  me  up 
the  rock  by  help  of  the  broom  handle,  rattled  away  as  if 
nothing  had  happened — pointing  proudly  to  a  rust-eaten 
triangle  with  a  bell  suspended  inside  of  it  and  his  little  flag 
floating  on  top. 

"But,  oh  dear,  what  are  we  to  do  now?"  I  whimpered. 


34  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

'  '  Don 't  you  worrit  about  that, ' '  he  said.  ' '  We  11  just  signal 
back  to  the  next  base — we  call  them  bases  when  we're  out 
asploring. ' ' 

I  understood  from  this  that  he  was  going  to  ring  the  bell 
which,  being  heard  on  the  land,  would  bring  somebody  to  our 
relief.  But  the  bell  was  big,  only  meant  to  be  put  in  motion 
on  stormy  nights  by  the  shock  and  surging  of  an  angry  sea, 
and  when  Martin  had  tied  a  string  to  its  tongue  it  was  a  feeble 
sound  he  struck  from  it. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  an  hour,  two  hours,  and  still  I  saw 
nothing  on  the  water  but  our  own  empty  boat  rocking  its  way 
back  to  the  shore. 

"Will  they  ever  come?"  I  faltered. 

"Ra — ther!  Just  you  wait  and  you'll  see  them  coming. 
And  when  they  take  us  ashore  there'll  be  crowds  and  crowds 
with  bugles  and  bands  and  things  to  take  us  home.  My  good- 
ness, yes,"  he  said,  with  the  same  wild  look,  "hundreds  and 
tons  of  them!" 

But  the  sun  set  over  the  sea  behind  us,  the  land  in  front 
grew  dim,  the  moaning  tide  rose  around  the  quaking  rock  and 
even  the  screaming  sea-fowl  deserted  us,  and  still  there  was 
no  sign  of  relief.  My  heart  was  quivering  through  my  clothes 
by  this  time,  but  Martin,  who  had  whistled  and  sung,  began  to 
talk  about  being  hungry. 

"My  goodness  yes,  I'm  that  hungry  I  could  eat.  ...  I 
could  eat  a  dog — we  allus  eats  our  dogs  when  we're  out 
asploring. ' ' 

This  reminded  me  of  the  biscuit,  but  putting  my  hand  to 
the  pocket  of  my  frock  I  found  to  my  dismay  that  it  was  gone, 
having  fallen  out,  perhaps,  when  I  slipped  in  my  climbing. 
My  lip  fell  and  I  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  fear,  but  he 
only  said: 

"No  matter!  We  never  minds  a  bit  of  hungry  when  we're 
out  asploring." 

I  did  not  know  then,  what  now  I  know,  that  my  little  boy 
who  could  not  learn  his  lessons  and  had  always  been  in  disgrace, 
was  a  born  gentleman,  but  my  throat  was  thick  and  my 
eyes  were  swimming  and  to  hide  my  emotion  I  pretended 
to  be  ill. 

"I  know,"  said  Martin.  "Dizzingtory !  [dysentery].  We 
allus  has  dizzingtory  when  we're  out  asploring." 

There  was  one  infallible  cure  for  that,  though — milk ! 


' '  I  allus  drinks  a  drink  of  milk,  and  away  goes  the  dizzing- 
tory  in  a  jiffy." 

This  recalled  the  bottle,  but  when  I  twisted  it  round  on 
my  belt,  hoping  to  make  amends  for  the  lost  biscuit,  I  found 
to  my  confusion  that  it  had  suffered  from  the  same  misad- 
venture, being  cracked  in  the  bottom,  and  every  drop  of  the 
contents  gone. 

That  was  the  last  straw,  and  the  tears  leapt  to  my  eyes, 
but  Martin  went  on  whistling  and  singing  and  ringing  the  big 
bell  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

The  darkness  deepened,  the  breath  of  night  came  sweeping 
over  the  sea,  the  boom  of  the  billows  on  the  rock  became  still 
more  terrible,  and  I  began  to  shiver. 

"The  sack!"  cried  Martin.  "We  allus  sleeps  in  sacks  when 
we  're  out  asploring. ' ' 

I  let  him  do  what  he  liked  with  me  now,  but  when  he  had 
packed  me  up  in  the  sack,  and  put  me  to  lie  at  the  foot  of  the 
triangle,  telling  me  I  was  as  right  as  ninepence,  I  began  to 
think  of  something  I  had  read  in  a  storybook,  and  half  choking 
with  sobs  I  said : 

"Martin!" 

"What  now,  shipmate?" 

"It's  all  my  fault  .  .  .  and  I'm  just  as  frightened  as 
Jimmy  Christopher's  sister  and  Nessy  MacLeod  and  Betsy 
Beauty  .  .  .  and  I'm  not  a  stunner  .  .  .  and  you'll 
have  to  give  me  up  ...  and  leave  me  here  and  save  your- 
self and  .  .  ." 

But  Martin  stopped  me  with  a  shout  and  a  crack  of  laughter. 

"Not  me!  Not  much!  We  never  leaves  a  pal  when 
we're  out  asploring.  Long  as  we  lives  we  never  does  it.  Not 
never!  " 

That  finished  me.  I  blubbered  like  a  baby,  and  William 
Rufus,  who  was  sitting  by  my  side,  lifted  his  nose  and  joined 
in  my  howling. 

What  happened  next  I  never  rightly  knew.  I  was  only 
aware,  though  my  back  was  to  him,  that  Martin,  impatient 
of  his  string,  had  leapt  up  to  the  bell  and  was  swinging  his 
little  body  from  the  tongue  to  make  a  louder  clamour.  One 
loud  clang  I  heard,  and  then  came  a  crash  and  a  crack,  and 
then  silence. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cried,  but  at  first  there  was  no  answer. 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

And  then  through  the  thunderous  boom  of  the  rising  sea 


36  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

on  the  rock,  came  the  breaking  voice  of  my  boy  (he  had 
broken  his  right  arm)  mingled  with  the  sobs  which  his  mi- 
conquered  and  unconquerable  little  soul  was  struggling  to 
suppress — 

"We  nerer  minds  a  bit  of  hurt  ...  we  never  minds 
nothing  when  we  're  out  asploring ! ' ' 

Meantime  on  shore  there  was  a  great  commotion.  My 
father  wa«  railing  at  Aunt  Bridget,  who  was  upbraiding 
my  mother,  who  was  crying  for  Father  Dan,  who  was  flying 
off  for  Doctor  Conrad,  who  was  putting  his  horse  into  his 
gig  and  scouring  the  parish  in  search  of  the  two  lost 
children. 

But  Tommj  the  Mate,  who  remembered  the  conversation 
in  the  potting-shed  and  thought  he  heard  the  tinkle  of  a 
bell  at  sea,  hurried  off  to  the  shore,  where  he  found  his 
boat  bobbing  on  the  beach,  and  thereby  came  to  his  own 
conclusions. 

By  the  light  of  a  lantern  he  pulled  out  to  St.  Mary's  Rock, 
and  there,  guided  by  the  howling  of  the  dog,  he  came  upon 
the  great  little  explorers,  hardly  more  than  three  feet  above 
high  water,  lying  together  in  the  corn  sack,  locked  in  each 
other's  arms  and  fast  asleep. 

There  were  no  crowds  and  bands  of  music  waiting  for  us 
when  Tommy  brought  us  ashore,  and  after  leaving  Martin 
with  his  broken  limb  in  his  mother 's  arms  at  the  gate  of  Sunny 
Lodge,  he  took  me  over  to  the  Presbytery  in  order  that  Father 
Dan  might  carry  me  home  and  so  stand  between  me  and  my 
father's  wrath  and  Aunt  Bridget's  birch. 

Unhappily  there  was  no  need  for  this  precaution.  The 
Big  House,  when  we  reached  it,  was  in  great  confusion.  My 
mother  had  broken  a  blood  vessel. 

TENTH  CHAPTER 

DUBING  the  fortnight  in  which  my  mother  was  confined  to  bed 
I  was  her  constant  companion  and  attendant.  With  the  mighty 
eagerness  of  a  child  who  knew  nothing  of  what  the  solemn 
time  foreboded  I  flew  about  the  house  on  tiptoe,  fetching  my 
mother's  medicine  and  her  milk  and  the  ice  to  cool  it,  and 
always  praising  myself  for  my  industry  and  thinking  I  was 
quite  indispensable. 

"You  couldn't  do  without  your  little  Mally,  could  you, 


MY  GIRLHOOD  37 

mammy?"  I  would  say,  and  my  mother  would  smooth  my 
hair  lovingly  with  her  thin  white  hand  and  answer : 

"No,  indeed,  I  couldn't  do  without  my  little  Mally."  And 
then  my  little  bird-like  beak  would  rise  proudly  in  the  air. 

All  this  tune  I  saw  nothing  of  Martin,  and  only  heard 
through  Doctor  Conrad  in  his  conversations  with  my  mother, 
that  the  boy's  broken  arm  had  been  set,  and  that  as  soon  as  it 
was  better,  he  was  to  be  sent  to  King  George's  College,  which 
was  at  the  other  end  of  Elian.  What  was  to  be  done  with 
myself  I  never  inquired,  being  so  satisfied  that  my  mother 
could  not  get  on  without  me. 

I  was  partly  aware  that  big  letters,  bearing  foreign  postage- 
stamps  and  seals  and  coats  of  arms,  with  pictures  of  crossei 
and  hearts,  were  coming  to  our  house.  I  was  also  aware  that 
at  intervals,  while  my  mother  was  in  bed,  there  was  the  sound 
of  voices,  as  if  in  eager  and  sometimes  heated  conference,  in 
the  room  below,  and  that  my  mother  would  raise  her  pale 
face  from  her  pillow  and  stop  my  chattering  with  "Hush!" 
when  my  father's  voice  was  louder  and  sterner  than  usual. 
But  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  connect  these  incidents  with 
myself,  until  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  my  mother  got 
up  for  the  first  time. 

She  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  for  autumn  was  stealing  on, 
and  I  was  bustling  about  her,  fixing  the  rug  about  her  knees 
and  telling  her  if  she  wanted  anything  she  was  to  be  sure  and 
call  her  little  Mally,  when  a  timid  knock  came  to  the  door 
and  Father  Dan  entered  the  room.  I  can  see  his  fair  head  and 
short  figure  still,  and  hear  his  soft  Irish  voice,  as  he  stepped 
forward  and  said: 

"Now  don't  worry,. my  daughter.    Above  all,  don't  worry." 

By  long  experience  my  mother  knew  this  for  a  iign  of  the 
dear  Father's  own  perturbation,  and  I  saw  her  lower  lip 
tremble  as  she  asked: 

* '  Hadn  't  Mary  better  run  down  to  the  garden  ? ' ' 

"No!  Oh  no!"  said  Father  Dan.  "It  is  about  Mary  I 
come  to  speak,  so  our  little  pet  may  as  well  remain." 

Then  at  a  signal  from  my  mother  I  went  over  to  her  and 
stood  by  her  side,  and  she  embraced  my  waist  with  a  trembling 
arm,  while  the  Father  took  a  seat  by  her  side,  and,  fumbling 
the  little  silver  cross  on  his  chain,  delivered  his  message. 

After  long  and  anxious  thought — and  he  might  tay  prayer 
— it  had  been  decided  that  I  should  be  sent  away  to  a  Conrent. 
It  was  to  be  a  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  Borne.  He  was 


38  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

to  take  me  to  Rome  himself  and  see  me  safely  settled  there. 
And  they  (meaning  my  father  and  Aunt  Bridget)  had  prom- 
ised him — faithfully  promised  him — that  when  the  holidays 
came  round  he  should  be  sent  to  bring  me  home  again.  So 
there  was  nothing  to  fear,  nothing  to  worry  about,  nothing 
to  ...  to  ... 

My  mother  listened  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then — her 
beautiful  white  face  distorted  by  pain — she  broke  in  on  the 
Father's  message  with  a  cry  of  protest. 

"But  she  is  so  young!  Such  a  child!  Only  seven  years 
old !  How  can  any  one  think  of  sending  such  a  little  one  away 
from  home  ? ' ' 

Father  Dan  tried  to  pacify  her.  It  was  true  I  was  very 
young,  but  then  the  Reverend  Mother  was  such  a  good 
woman.  She  would  love  me  and  care  for  me  as  if  I  were  her 
own  child.  And  then  the  good  nuns,  God  bless  their  holy 
souls  .  .  . 

"But  Mary  is  all  I  have,"  cried  my  mother,  "and  if  they 
take  her  away  from  me  I  shall  be  broken-hearted.  At  such  a 
time  too !  How  cruel  they  are !  They  know  quite  well  what 
the  doctor  says.  Can 't  they  wait  a  little  longer? ' ' 

I  could  see  that  Father  Dan  was  arguing  against  himself, 
for  his  eyes  filled  as  he  said : 

"It's  hard,  I  know  it's  hard  for  you,  my  daughter.  But 
perhaps  it's  best  for  the  child  that  she  should  go  away  from 
home — perhaps  it's  all  God's  blessed  and  holy  will.  Remember 
there 's  a  certain  person  here  who  isn  't  kind  to  our  little 
innocent,  and  is  making  her  a  cause  of  trouble.  Not  that  I 
think  she  is  actuated  by  evil  intentions  .  .  ." 

"But  she  is,  she  is,"  cried  my  mother,  who  was  growing 
more  and  more  excited. 

"Then  all  the  more  reason  why  Mary  should  go  to  the 
Convent — for  a  time  at  all  events." 

My  mother  began  to  waver,  and  she  said: 

"Let  her  be  sent  to  a  Convent  in  the  island  then. " 

"I  thought  of  that,  but  there  isn't  one,"  said  Father  Dan. 

' '  Then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  then  take  her  to  the  Presby- 
tery," said  my  mother.  "Dear,  dear  Father,"  she  pleaded, 
"let  her  live  with  you,  and  have  somebody  to  teach  her,  and 
then  she  can  come  to  see  me  every  day,  or  twice  a  week,  or 
even  once  a  week — I  am  not  unreasonable." 

' '  It  would  be  beautiful, ' '  said  Father  Dan,  reaching  over  to 
touch  my  arm.  "To  have  our  little  Mary  in  my  dull  old  house 


MY  GIRLHOOD  39 

would  be  like  having  the  sun  there  always.  But  there  are 
reasons  why  a  young  girl  should  not  be  brought  up  in  the  home 
of  a  priest,  so  it  is  better  that  our  little  precious  should  go 
to  Rome." 

My  mother  was  breaking  down  and  Father  Dan  followed 
up  his  advantage. 

' '  Then  wisha,  my  daughter,  think  what  a  good  thing  it  will 
be  for  the  child.  She  will  be  one  of  the  children  of  the  Infant 
Jesus  first,  then  a  child  of  Mary,  and  then  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
itself.  And  then  remember,  Rome!  The  holy  city!  The 
city  of  the  Holy  Father !  Why,  who  knows,  she  may  even  see 
himself  some  day ! ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  my  mother,  and  then  turning  with 
her  melting  eyes  to  me  she  said : 

' '  Would  my  Mary  like  to  go — leaving  her  mamma  but  coming 
home  in  the  holidays — would  she  ? ' ' 

I  was  going  to  say  I  would  not,  because  mamma  could  not 
possibly  get  on  without  me,  but  before  I  could  reply  Aunt 
Bridget,  with  her  bunch  of  keys  at  her  waist,  came  jingling 
into  the  room,  and  catching  my  mother's  last  words,  said,  in 
her  harsh,  high-pitched  voice. 

' '  Isabel !  You  astonish  me !  To  defer  to  the  will  of  a  child ! 
Such  a  child  too!  So  stubborn  and  spoiled  and  self-willed! 
If  we  say  it  is  good  for  her  to  go  she  must  go ! " 

I  could  feel  through  my  mother's  arm,  which  was  still  about 
my  waist,  that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but  at 
first  she  did  not  speak  and  Aunt  Bridget,  in  her  peremptory 
way,  went  on : 

"We  say  it  is  good  for  you,  too,  Isabel,  if  she  is  not  to 
hasten  your  death  by  preying  on  your  nerves  and  causing  you 
to  break  more  blood  vessels.  So  we  are  consulting  your  welfare 
as  well  as  the  girl's  in  sending  her  away." 

My  mother 's  timid  soul  could  bear  no  more.  I  think  it  must 
have  been  the  only  moment  of  anger  her  gentle  spirit  ever 
knew,  but,  gathering  all  her  strength,  she  turned  upon  Aunt 
Bridget  in  ungovernable  excitement. 

"Bridget,"  she  said,  "you  are  doing  nothing  of  the  kind. 
You  know  you  are  not.  You  are  only  trying  to  separate  me 
from  my  child  and  my  child  from  me.  When  you  came  to  my 
house  I  thought  you  would  be  kinder  to  my  child  than  any- 
body else,  but  you  have  not  been,  you  have  been  cruel  to  her, 
and  shut  your  heart  against  her,  and  while  I  have  been  helpless 
here,  and  in  bed,  you  have  never  shown  her  one  moment  of 


40  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

love  and  kindness.  No,  you  have  no  feeling  except  for  your 
own,  and  it  never  occurs  to  you  that  having  brought  your  own 
child  into  my  house  you  are  trying  to  turn  my  child  out 
of  it." 

"So  that's  how  you  look  at  it,  is  it?"  said  Aunt  Bridget, 
with  a  flash  of  her  cold  grey  eyes.  "I  thought  I  came  to 
this  house — your  house  as  you  call  it — only  out  of  the  best 
intentions,  just  to  spare  you  trouble  when  you  were  ill  and 
unable  to  attend  to  your  duties  as  a  wife.  But  because  I  cor- 
rect your  child  when  she  is  wilful  and  sly  and  wicked.  .  .  . " 

"Correct  your  own  child,  Bridget  O'Neill!"  cried  my 
mother,  "and  leave  mine  to  me.  She's  all  I  have  and  it  isn't 
long  I  shall  have  her.  You  know  quite  well  how  much  she 
has  cost  me,  and  that  I  haven 't  had  a  very  happy  married  life, 
but  instead  of  helping  me  with  her  father  .  .  . " 

"Say  no  more,"  said  Aunt  Bridget,  "we  don't  want  you 
to  hurt  yourself  again,  and  to  allow  this  ill-conditioned  child 
to  be  the  cause  of  another  hemorrhage. ' ' 

"Bridget  O'Neill,"  cried  my  mother,  rising  up  from  her 
chair,  "you  are  a  hard-hearted  woman  with  a  bad  disposition. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  wasn't  Mary  who  made  me  ill, 
but  you — you,  who  reproached  me  and  taunted  me  about  my 
child  until  my  heart  itself  had  to  bleed.  For  seven  years  you 
have  been  doing  that,  and  now  you  are  disposing  of  my  darling 
over  my  head  without  consulting  me.  Has  a  mother  no  rights 
in  her  own  child — the  child  she  has  suffered  for,  and  loved  and 
lived  for — that  other  people  who  care  nothing  for  it  should 
take  it  away  from  her  and  send  it  into  a  foreign  country  where 
she  may  never  see  it  again  ?  But  you  shall  not  do  that !  No, 
you  shall  not !  As  long  as  there 's  breath  in  my  body  you  shall 
not  do  it,  and  if  you  attempt  .  .  ." 

In  her  wild  excitement  my  mother  had  lifted  one  of  her 
trembling  hands  into  Aunt  Bridget's  face  while  the  other  was 
still  clasped  about  me,  when  suddenly,  with  a  look  of  fear  on 
her  face,  she  stopped  speaking.  She  had  heard  a  heavy  step 
on  the  stairs.  It  was  my  father.  He  entered  the  room  with  his 
knotty  forehead  more  compressed  than  usual  and  said : 

"What's  this  she  shall  not  do?" 

My  mother  dropped  back  into  her  seat  in  silence,  and  Aunt 
Bridget,  wiping  her  eyes  on  her  black  apron — she  only  wept 
when  my  father  was  present — proceeded  to  explain. 

"It  seems  I  am  a  hard-hearted  woman  with  a  bad  disposition 
and  though  I've  been  up  early  and  late  and  made  myself  a 


MY  GIRLHOOD  41 

servant  for  seven  years  I'm  only  in  this  house  to  turn  my 
sister 's  child  out  of  it.  It  seems  too,  that  we  have  no  business — 
none  of  us  have — to  say  what  ought  to  be  done  for  this  girl — 
her  mother  being  the  only  person  who  has  any  rights  in  the 
child,  and  if  we  attempt  .  .  ." 

"What's  that!" 

In  his  anger  and  impatience  my  father  could  listen  no 
longer  and  in  his  loud  voice  he  said : 

' '  Since  when  has  a  father  lost  control  of  his  own  daughter  ? 
He  has  to  provide  f 01  her,  hasn  't  he  ?  If  she  wants  anything 
it's  to  him  she  has  to  look  for  it,  isn't  it?  That's  the  law  I 
guess,  eh  ?  Always  has  been,  all  the  world  over.  Then  what 's 
all  this  hustling  about?" 

My  mother  made  a  feeble  effort  to  answer  him. 

"  I  was  only  saying,  Daniel     .     .     ." 

"You  were  saying  something  foolish  and  stupid.  I  reckon 
a  man  can  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own,  can't  he?  If  this 
girl  is  my  child  and  I  say  she  is  to  go  somewhere,  she  is  to  go. " 
And  saying  this  my  father  brought  down  his  thick  hand  with  a 
thump  on  to  a  table. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  laid  claim  to  me,  and  perhaps 
that  acted  on  my  mother,  as  she  said,  submissively : 

"Very  well,  dear.  You  know  best  what  is  best  for  Mary, 
and  if  you  say — you  and  Bridget  and  .  .  .  and  Father 
Dan  .  .  ." 

"I  do  say,  and  that's  enough.  So  just  go  to  work  and  fix 
up  this  Convent  scheme  without  future  notice.  And  hark 
here,  let  me  see  for  the  future  if  a  man  can 't  have  peace  from 
these  two-cent  trifles  for  his  important  business. ' ' 

My  mother  was  crushed.  Her  lips  moved  again,  but  she 
said  nothing  aloud,  and  my  father  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left 
the  room,  shaking  the  floor  at  every  step  under  the  weight 
of  his  sixteen  stone.  At  the  next  moment,  Aunt  Bridget, 
jingling  her  keys,  went  tripping  after  him. 

Hardly  had  they  gone  when  my  mother  broke  into  a  long 
fit  of  coughing,  and  when  it  was  over  she  lay  back  exhausted, 
with  her  white  face  and  her  tired  eyes  turned  upwards.  Then 
I  clasped  her  about  the  neck,  and  Father  Dan,  whose  cheeks 
were  wet  with  tears  patted  her  drooping  hand. 

My  darling  mother!  Never  once  have  I  thought  of  her 
without  the  greatest  affection,  but  now  that  I  know  for  myself 
what  she  must  have  suffered  I  love  best  to  think  of  her  as  she 
was  that  day — my  sweet,  beautiful,  timid  angel — standing  up 


42  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

for  one  brief  moment,  not  only  against  Aunt  Bridget,  but 
against  the  cruelty  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  divine  right  of  her 
outraged  motherhood. 

ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 

MY  mother's  submission  was  complete.  Within  twenty-four 
hours  she  was  busy  preparing  clothes  for  my  journey  to  Rome. 
The  old  coloured  pattern  book  was  brought  out  again,  material 
was  sent  for,  a  sewing-maid  was  engaged  from  the  village,  and 
above  all,  in  my  view,  an  order  was  dispatched  to  Blackwater 
for  a  small  squirrel-skin  scarf,  a  large  squirrel-skin  muff,  and 
a  close-fitting  squirrel-skin  hat  with  a  feather  on  the  side  of  it. 

A  child's  heart  is  a  running  brook,  and  it  would  wrong  the 
truth  to  say  that  I  grieved  much  in  the  midst  of  these  busy 
preparations.  On  the  contrary  I  felt  a  sort  of  pride  in  them, 
poor  innocent  that  I  was,  as  in  something  that  gave  me  a 
certain  high  superiority  over  Betsy  Beauty  and  Nessy  MacLeod, 
and  entitled  me  to  treat  them  with  condescension. 

Father  Dan,  who  came  more  frequently  than  ever,  fostered 
this  feeling  without  intending  to  do  so,  by  telling  me,  when- 
ever we  were  alone,  that  I  must  be  a  good  girl  to  everybody 
now,  and  especially  to  my  mother. 

"My  little  woman  would  be  sorry  to  worry  mamma,  wouldn't 
she  ?  "  he  would  whisper,  and  when  I  answered  that  I  would  be 
sorrier  than  sorry,  he  would  say : 

"Wisha  then,  she  must  be  brave.  She  must  keep  up.  She 
must  not  grieve  about  going  away  or  cry  when  the  time  comes 
for  parting." 

I  said  "yes"  and  "yes"  to  all  this,  feeling  very  confidential 
and  courageous,  but  I  dare  say  the  good  Father  gave  the  same 
counsel  to  my  mother  also,  for  she  and  I  had  many  games  of 
make-believe,  I  remember,  in  which  we  laughed  and  chattered 
and  sang,  though  I  do  not  think  I  ever  suspected  that  the  part 
we  played  was  easier  to  me  than  to  her. 

It  dawned  on  me  at  last,  though,  when  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  near  to  the  time  of  my  going  away,  I  was  awakened  by 
a  bad  fit  of  my  mother's  coughing,  and  heard  her  say  to  herself 
in. the  deep  breathing  that  followed: 

"My  poor  child!    What  is  to  become  of  her?" 

Nevertheless  all  went  well  down  to  the  day  of  my  departure. 
It  had  been  arranged  that  I  was  to  sail  to  Liverpool  by  the  first 
of  the  two  daily  steamers,  and  without  any  awakening  I  leapt 


MY  GIRLHOOD  43 

out  of  bed  at  the  first  sign  of  daylight.  So  great  was  my 
delight  that  I  began  to  dance  in  my  nightdress  to  an  invisible 
skipping  rope,  forgetting  my  father,  who  always  rose  at  dawn 
and  was  at  breakfast  in  the  room  below. 

My  mother  and  I  breakfasted  in  bed,  and  then  there  was 
great  commotion.  It  chiefly  consisted  for  me  in  putting  on 
my  new  clothes,  including  my  furs,  and  then  turning  round 
and  round  on  tiptoe  and  smiling  at  myself  in  a  mirror.  I 
was  doing  this  while  my  mother  was  telling  me  to  write  to  her 
as  often  as  I  was  allowed,  and  while  she  knelt  at  her  prayer- 
stool,  which  she  used  as  a  desk,  to  make  a  copy  of  the  address 
for  my  letters. 

Then  I  noticed  that  the  first  line  of  her  superscription  ' '  Mrs. 
Daniel  O'Neill"  was  blurred  by  the  tears  that  were  dropping 
from  her  eyes,  and  my  throat  began  to  hurt  me  dreadfully. 
But  I  remembered  what  Father  Dan  had  told  me  to  do,  so  I 
said: 

' '  Never  mind,  mammy.  Don 't  worry — I  '11  be  home  for  the 
holidays. ' ' 

Soon  afterwards  we  heard  the  carriage  wheels  passing  under 
the  window,  and  then  Father  Dan  came  up  in  a  white  knitted 
muffler,  and  with  a  funny  bag  which  he  used  for  his  surplice 
at  funerals,  and  said,  through  a  little  cloud  of  white  breath, 
that  everything  was  ready. 

I  saw  that  my  mother  was  turning  round  and  taking  out  her 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  I  was  snuffling  a  little  myself,  but 
at  a  sign  from  Father  Dan,  who  was  standing  at  the  threshold, 
I  squeezed  back  the  water  in  my  eyes  and  cried : 

' '  Good-bye  mammy.  I  '11  be  back  for  Christmas, ' '  and  then 
darted  across  to  the  door. 

I  was  just  passing  through  it  when  I  heard  my  mother 
say  ' '  Mary "  in  a  strange  low  voice,  and  I  turned  and  saw  her 
— I  can  see  her  still — with  her  beautiful  pale  face  all  broken 
up,  and  her  arms  held  out  to  me. 

Then  I  rushed  back  to  her,  and  she  clasped  me  to  her  breast, 
crying,  ' '  Mally  veen !  My  Mally  veen ! ' '  and  I  could  feel  her 
heart  beating  through  her  dress  and  hear  the  husky  rattle  in 
her  throat,  and  then  all  our  poor  little  game  of  make-believe 
broke  down  utterly. 

At  the  next  moment  my  father  was  calling  upstairs  that  I 
should  be  late  for  the  steamer,  so  my  mother  dried  her  own 
eyes  and  then  mine,  and  let  me  go. 

Father  Dan  was  gone  when  I  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs, 


44  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

but  seeing  Nessy  MacLeod  and  Betsy  Beauty  at  the  bottom  of 
them  I  soon  recovered  my  composure,  and  sailing  down  in  my 
finery  I  passed  them  in  stately  silence  with  my  little  bird- 
like  head  in  the  air. 

I  intended  to  do  the  same  with  Aunt  Bridget,  who  was 
standing  with  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders  by  the  open  door,  but 
she  touched  me  and  said : 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me  good-bye,  then?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  drawing  my  little  body  to  ite  utmost 
height. 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because  you've  been  unkind  to  mamma  and  cruel  to  me, 
and  because  you  think  there's  nobody  but  Betsy  Beauty. 
And  I  '11  tell  them  at  the  Convent  that  you  are  making  mamma 
ill,  and  you  're  as  bad  as  ...  as  bad  as  the  bad  women  in 
the  Bible!" 

"My  gracious!"  said  Aunt  Bridget,  and  she  tried  to  laugh, 
but  I  could  see  that  her  face  became  as  white  as  a  white- 
washed wall.  This  did  not  trouble  me  in  the  least  until  I 
reached  the  carriage,  when  Father  Dan,  who  was  sitting  inside, 
said: 

"My  little  Mary  won't  leave  home  like  that — without  kissing 
her  aunt  and  saying  good-bye  to  her  cousins. ' ' 

So  I  returned  and  shook  hands  with  Nessy  MacLeod  and 
Betsy  Beauty,  and  lifted  my  little  face  to  my  Aunt  Bridget. 

' '  That 's  better, ' '  she  said,  after  she  had  kissed  me,  but  when 
I  had  passed  her  my  quick  little  ear  caught  the  words : 

' '  Good  thing  she 's  going,  though. ' ' 

During  this  time  my  father,  with  the  morning  mist  playing 
like  hoar-frost  about  his  iron-grey  hair,  had  been  tramping 
the  gravel  and  saying  the  horses  were  getting  cold,  so  without 
more  ado  he  bundled  me  into  the  carriage  and  banged  the  door 
on  me. 

But  hardly  had  we  started  when  Father  Dan,  who  was 
blinking  his  little  eyes  and  pretending  to  blow  his  nose  on  his 
coloured  print  handkerchief,  said,  "Look!"  and  pointed  up 
to  my  mother's  room. 

There  she  was  again,  waving  and  kissing  her  hand  to  me 
through  her  open  window,  and  she  continued  to  do  so  until 
we  swirled  round  some  trees  and  I  lost  the  sight  of  her. 

"What  happened  in  my  mother's  room  when  her  window 
was  closed  I  do  not  know,  but  I  well  remember  that,  creeping 
into  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  I  forgot  all  about  the  glory 


MY  GIRLHOOD  45 

and  grandeur  of  going  away,  and  that  it  did*  not  help  me 
to  remember  -when  half  way  down  the  drive  a  boy  with 
a  dog  darted  from  under  the  chestnuts  and  raced  alongside 
of  us. 

It  was  Martin,  and  though  his  right  arm  was  in  a  sling,  he 
leapt  up  to  the  step  and  held  on  to  the  open  window  by  his 
left  hand  while  he  pushed  his  head  into  the  carriage  and  made 
signs  to  me  to  take  out  of  his  mouth  a  big  red  apple  which 
he  held  in  his  teeth  by  the  stalk.  I  took  it,  and  then  he 
dropped  to  the  ground,  without  uttering  a  word,  and  I  could 
laugh  now  to  think  of  the  gruesome  expression  of  hia"  face 
with  its  lagging  lower  lip  and  bloodshot  eyes.  I  had  no 
temptation  to  do  so  then,  however,  and  least  of  all  when  I 
looked  back  and  saw  his  little  one-armed  figure  in  the  big  mush-" 
room  hat,  standing  on  the  top  of  the  high  wall  of  the  bridge, 
with  William  Rufus  beside  him. 

We  reached  Blackwater  in  good  time  for  the  boat,  and  when 
the  funnels  had  ceased  trumpeting  and  we  were  well  away,  I 
saw  that  we  were  sitting  in  one  of  two  private  cabins  on  the 
upper  deck;  and  then  Father  Dan  told  me  that  the  other 
was  occupied  by  the  young  Lord  Raa,  and  his  guardian,  and 
that  they  were  going  up  together  for  the  first  time  to  Oxford. 

I  am  sure  this  did  not  interest  me  in  the  least  at  that  moment, 
so  false  is  it  that  fate  forewarns  us  when  momentous  events  are 
about  to  occur.  And  now  that  I  had  time  to  think,  a  dreadful 
truth  was  beginning  to  dawn  on  me,  so  that  when  Father  Dan, 
who  was  much  excited,  went  off  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  great 
people,  I  crudled  up  in  the  corner  of  the  cabin  that  was  nearest 
to  the  door  and  told  myself  that  after  all  I  had  been  turned 
out  of  my  father's  house,  and  would  never  see  my  mother  and 
Martin  any  more. 

I  was  sitting  so,  with  my  hands  in  my  big  muff  and  my  face 
to  the  stern,  making  the  tiniest  occasional  sniff  as  the  mountains 
of  my  home  faded  away  in  the  sunlight,  which  was  now  tipping 
the  hilltops  with  a  feathery  crest,  when  my  cabin  was  darkened 
by  somebody  who  stood  in  the  doorway. 

It  was  a  tall  boy,  almost  a  man,  and  I  knew  in  a  moment  who 
he  was.  He  was  the  young  Lord  Raa.  And  at  first  I  thought 
how  handsome  and  well  dressed  he  was  as  he  looked  down  at 
me  and  smiled.  After  a  moment  he  stepped  into  the  cabin  and 
sat  in  front  of  me  and  said : 

"So  you  are  little  Mary  O'Neill,  are  you!" 


46  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

I  did  not  speak.  I  was  thinking  he  was  not  so  very  hand- 
some after  all,  having  two  big  front  teeth  like  Betsy  Beauty. 

"The  girl  who  ought  to  have  been  a  boy  and  put  my  nose 
out,  eh?" 

Still  I  did  not  speak.  I  was  thinking  his  voice  was  like 
Nessy  MacLeod's — shrill  and  harsh  and  grating. 

"Poor  little  mite !  Going  all  the  way  to  Rome  to  a  Convent, 
isn't  she?" 

Even  yet  I  did  not  speak.  I  was  thinking  his  eyes  were  like 
Aunt  Bridget 's — cold  and  grey  and  piercing. 

' '  So  silent  and  demure,  though !  Quite  a  little  nun  already ! 
A  deuced  pretty  one,  too,  if  anybody  asks  me. ' ' 

I  was  beginning  to  have  a  great  contempt  for  him. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  big  angel  eyes  from?  Stole  them 
from  some  picture  of  the  Madonna,  1 11  swear. ' ' 

By  this  time  I  had  concluded  that  he  was  not  worth  speaking 
to,  so  I  turned  my  head  and  I  was  looking  back  at  the  sea, 
when  I  heard  him  say : 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  give  me  a  kiss,  you  nice  little 
woman,  aren  't  you  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"Oh,  but  you  must — we  are  relations,  you  know." 

"I  won't." 

He  laughed  at  that,  and  rising  from  his  seat,  he  reached  over 
to  kiss  me,  whereupon  I  drew  one  of  my  hands  out  of  my  muff 
and  doubling  my  little  mittened  fist,  I  struck  him  in  the  face. 

Being,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  a  young  autocrat,  much 
indulged  by  servants  and  generally  tyrannising  over  them,  he 
was  surprised  and  angry. 

"The  spitfire!"  he  said.  "Who  would  have  believed  it? 
The  face  of  a  nun  and  the  temper  of  a  devil !  But  you'll  have 
to  make  amends  for  this,  my  lady." 

With  that  he  went  away  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him  until 
the  steamer  was  drawing  up  at  the  landing  stage  at  Liverpool, 
and  then,  while  the  passengers  were  gathering  up  their  luggage, 
he  came  back  with  Father  Dan,  and  the  tall  sallow  man  who 
was  his  guardian,  and  said : 

' '  Going  to  give  me  that  kiss  to  make  amends,  or  are  you  to 
owe  me  a  grudge  for  the  rest  of  your  life,  my  lady  ? ' ' 

"My  little  Mary  couldn't  owe  a  grudge  to  anybody,"  said 
Father  Dan,  "She'll  Mss  his  lordship  and  make  amends;  I'm 
certain. ' ' 


MY  GIRLHOOD  47 

And  then  I  did  to  the  young  Lord  Eaa  what  I  had  done 
to  Aunt  Bridget — I  held  up  my  face  and  he  kissed  me. 

It  was  a  little,  simple,  trivial  incident,  but  it  led  with  other 
things  to  the  most  lamentable  fact  of  my  life,  and  when  I 
think  of  it  I  sometimes  wonder  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  He 
who  numbers  the  flowers  of  the  field  and  counts  the  sparrows 
as  they  fall  has  no  handwriting  with  which  to  warn  His 
children  that  their  footsteps  may  not  fail. 

TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

OP  our  journey  to  Rome  nothing  remains  to  me  but  the  memory 
of  sleeping  in  different  beds  in  different  towns,  of  trains 
screaming  through  tunnels  and  slowing  down  in  glass-roofed 
railway  stations,  of  endless  crowds  of  people  moving  here 
and  there  in  a  sort  of  maze,  nothing  but  this,  and  the 
sense  of  being  very  little  and  very  helpless  and  of  having 
to  be  careful  not  to  lose  sight  of  Father  Dan,  for  fear  of 
being  lost — until  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  after  we 
left  home. 

We  were  then  crossing  a  wide  rolling  plain  that  was  almost 
destitute  of  trees,  and  looked,  from  the  moving  train,  like 
green  billows  of  the  sea  with  grass  growing  over  them.  Father 
Dan  was  reading  his  breviary  for  the  following  day,  not  know- 
ing what  he  would  have  to  do  in  it,  when  the  sun  set  in  a 
great  blaze  of  red  beyond  the  horizon,  and  then  suddenly  a  big 
round  black  ball,  like  a  captive  balloon,  seemed  to  rise  in  the 
midst  of  the  glory. 

I  called  Father  Dan's  attention  to  this,  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  fearfully  excited. 

' '  Don 't  worry,  my  child, ' '  he  cried,  while  tears  of  joy  sprang 
to  his  eyes.  "Do  you  know  what  that  is?  That's  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter 's !  Rome,  my  child,  Rome ! ' ' 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  arrived  at  our  destination, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  great  confusion  I  walked  by  Father 
Dan's  side  and  held  on  to  his  vertical  pocket,  while  he  carried 
his  own  bag,  and  a  basket  of  mine,  down  the  crowded  platform 
to  an  open  cab  outside  the  station. 

Then  Father  Dan  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  print  hand- 
kerchief and  I  sat  close  up  to  him,  and  the  driver  cracked  his 
long  whip  and  shouted  at  the  pedestrians  while  we  rattled 
on  and  on  over  stony  streets,  which  seemed  to  be  full  of  statues 


43 

and  fountains  that  were  lit  up  by  a  great  white  light  that  was 
not  moonlight  and  yet  looked  like  it. 

But  at  last  we  stopped  at  a  little  door  of  a  big  house  which 
seemed  to  stand,  with  a  church  beside  it,  on  a  high  shelf 
overlooking  the  city,  for  I  could  see  many  domes  like  that  of 
St.  Peter  lying  below  us. 

A  grill  in  the  little  door  was  first  opened  and  then  a  lady  in 
a  black  habit,  with  a  black  band  round  her  forehead  and 
white  bands  down  each  side  of  her  face,  opened  the  door  itself, 
and  asked  us  to  step  in,  and  when  we  had  done  so,  she  took 
us  down  a  long  passage  into  a  warm  room,  where  another 
lady,  dressed  in  the  same  way,  only  a  little  grander,  sat  in  a 
big  red  arm-chair. 

Father  Dan,  who  was  still  wearing  his  knitted  muffler,  bowed 
very  low  to  this  lady,  calling  her  the  Reverend  Mother  Magda- 
lene, and  she  answered  him  in  English  but  with  a  funny  sound 
which  I  afterwards  knew  to  be  a  foreign  accent. 

I  remember  that  I  thought  she  was  very  beautiful,  nearly 
as  beautiful  as  my  mother,  and  when  Father  Dan  told  me  to 
kiss  her  hand  I  did  so,  and  then  she  put  me  to  sit  in  a  chair 
and  looked  at  me. 

"What  is  her  age?"  she  asked,  whereupon  Father  Dan 
said  he  thought  I  would  be  eight  that  month,  which  was  right, 
being  October. 

"Small,  isn't  she?"  said  the  lady,  and  then  Father  Dan 
said  something  about  poor  mamma  which  I  cannot  remember. 

After  that  they  talked  about  other  things,  and  I  looked 
at  the  pictures  on  the  walls — pictures  of  Saints  and  Popes 
and,  above  all,  a  picture  of  Jesus  with  His  heart  open  in 
His  bosom. 

"The  child  will  be  hungry,"  said  the  lady.  "She  must 
have  something  to  eat  before  she  goes  to  bed — the  other  children 
have  gone  already." 

Then  she  rang  a  hand-bell,  and  when  the  first  lady  came 
back  she  said : 

"Ask  Sister  Angela  to  come  to  me  immediately." 

A  few  minutes  later  Sister  Angela  came  into  the  room, 
and  she  was  quite  young,  almost  a  girl,  with  such  a  sweet 
sad  face  that  I  loved  her  instantly. 

"This  is  little  Mary  O'Neill.  Take  her  to  the  Refectory 
and  give  her  whatever  she  wants,  and  don 't  leave  her  until  she 
is  quiet  and  comfortable. ' ' 


MY  GIRLHOOD  49 

"Very  well,  Mother,"  said  Sister  Angela,  and  taking  my 
hand  she  whispered :  ' '  Come,  Mary,  you  look  tired. ' ' 

I  rose  to  go  with  her,  but  at  the  same  moment  Father  Dan 
rose  too,  and  I  heard  him  say  he  must  lose  no  time  in  finding 
an  hotel,  for  his  Bishop  had  given  him  only  one  day  to  remain 
in  Rome,  and  he  had  to  catch  an  early  train  home  the  following 
morning. 

This  fell  on  me  like  a  thunderbolt.  I  hardly  know  what 
I  had  led  myself  to  expect,  but  certainly  the  idea  of  being 
left  alone  in  Rome  had  never  once  occurred  to  me. 

My  little  heart  was  fluttering,  and  dropping  the  Sister's 
hand  I  stepped  back  and  took  Father  Dan 's  and  said : 

"You  are  not  going  to  leave  your  little  Mary  are  you, 
Father?" 

It  was  harder  for  the  dear  Father  than  for  me,  for  I  remem- 
ber that,  fearfully  flurried,  he  stammered  in  a  thick  Toice 
something  about  the  Reverend  Mother  taking  good  care  of  me, 
and  how  he  was  sure  to  come  back  at  Christmas,  according  to  my 
father's  faithful  promise,  to  take  me  home  for  the  holidays. 

After  that  Sister  Angela  led  me,  sniffing  a  little  still,  to 
the  Refectory,  which  was  a  large,  echoing  room,  with  rows  of 
plain  deal  tables  and  forms,  ranged  in  front  of  a  reading  desk 
that  had  another  and  much  larger-  picture  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
on  the  wall  above  it.  Only  one  gasjet  was  burning,  and  I 
sat  under  it  to  eat  my  supper,  and  after  I  had  taken  a  basin 
of  soup  I  felt  more  comforted. 

Then  Sister  Angela  lit  a  lamp  and  taking  my  hand  she  led 
me  up  a  stone  staircase  to  the  Dormitory,  which  was  a  similar 
room,  but  not  so  silent,  because  it  was  full  of  beds,  and  the 
breathing  of  the  girls,  who  were  all  asleep,  made  it  sound  like 
the  watchmaker's  shop  in  our  village,  only  more  church-like 
and  solemn. 

My  bed  was  near  to  the  door,  and  after  Sister  Angela  had 
helped  me  to  undress,  and  tucked  me  in,  she  made  her  voice 
very  low,  and  said  I  would  be  quite  comfortable  now,  and  she 
was  sure  I  was  going  to  be  a  good  little  girl  and  a  dear  child 
of  the  Infant  Jesus ;  and  then  I  could  not  help  taking  my  arms 
out  again  and  clasping  her  round  the  neck  and  drawing  her 
head  down  and  kissing  her. 

After  that  she  took  the  lamp  and  went  away  to  a  cubicle 
which  was  partitioned  off  the  end  of  the  Dormitory  and  there 
I  could  see  her  prepare  to  go  to  bed  herself — taking  the  white 
bands  off  her  cheeks  and  the  black  band  off  her  forehe&d, 


50  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

and  letting  her  long  light  hair  fall  in  beautiful  wavy  masses 
about  her  face,  which  made  her  look  so  sweet  and  home 
like. 

But  oh,  I  was  so  lonely!  Never  in  my  life  since — no,  not 
even  when  I  was  in  my  lowest  depths — have  I  felt  so  little 
and  helpless  and  alone.  After  the  Sister  had  gone  to  bed  and 
everything  was  quiet  in  the  Dormitory  save  for  the  breathing 
of  the  girls — all  strangers  to  me  and  I  to  them — from  mere 
loneliness  I  covered  up  my  head  in  the  clothes  just  as  I  used 
to  do  when  I  was  a  little  thing  and  my  father  came  into  my 
mother's  room. 

I  try  not  to  think  bitterly  of  my  father,  but  even  yet  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  know  how  he  could  have  cast  me  away  so  lightly. 
Was  it  merely  that  he  wanted  peace  for  his  business  and  saw 
no  chance  of  securing  it  in  his  own  home  except  by  removing 
the  chief  cause  of  Aunt  Bridget's  jealousy?  Or  was  it  that 
his  old  grudge  against  Fate  for  making  me  a  girl  made  him 
wish  to  rid  himself  of  the  sight  of  me  ? 

I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  say.  But  in  either  case  I  try 
in  vain  to  see  how  he  could  have  thought  he  had  a  right,  caring 
nothing  for  me,  to  tear  me  from  the  mother  who  loved  me  and 
had  paid  for  me  so  dear;  or  how  he  could  have  believed  that 
because  he  was  my  father,  charged  with  the  care  of  my  poor 
little  body,  he  had  control  over  the  little  bleeding  heart  which 
was  not  his  to  make  to  suffer. 

He  is  my  father — God  help  me  to  think  the  best  of  him. 

THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

AT  half  past  six  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened  by  the  loud 
ringing  of  the  getting-up  bell,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  rouse 
myself  from  the  deep  sleep  of  childhood  I  saw  that  a  middle- 
aged  nun  with  a  severe  face  was  saying  a  prayer,  and  that  all 
the  girls  in  the  dormitory  were  kneeling  in  their  beds  while 
they  made  the  responses. 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  the  girls  were  chattering  and 
laughing  as  they  dressed,  making  the  room  tingle  with  twitter- 
ing sounds  like  a  tree  full  of  linnets  in  the  spring,  a  big  girl 
came  up  to  me  and  said : 

"I  am  Mildred  Bankes  and  Sister  Angela  says  I  am  to  look 
after  you  to-day." 

She  was  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  and  had  a  long  plain- 
featured  face  which  reminded  me  of  one  of  my  father's 


MY  GIRLHOOD  51 

horses  that  was  badly  used  by  the  farm  boys;  but  there 
was  something  sweet  in  her  smile  that  made  me  like  her 
instantly. 

She  helped  me  to  dress  in  my  brown  velvet  frock,  but  said 
that  one  of  her  first  duties  would  be  to  take  me  to  the  lay 
sisters  who  made  the  black  habits  which  all  the  girls  in  the 
convent  wore. 

It  was  still  so  early  that  the  darkness  of  the  room  was  just 
broken  by  pale  shafts  of  light  from  the  windows,  but  I  could 
see  that  the  children  of  my  own  age  were  only  seven  or  eight 
altogether,  while  the  majority  of  the  girls  were  several  years 
older,  and  Mildred  explained  this  by  telling  me  that  the 
children  of  the  Infant  Jesus,  like  myself,  were  so  few  that 
they  had  been  put  into  the  dormitory  of  the  children  of  the 
Sacred  Heart. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  everybody  was  washed  and  dressed, 
and  then,  at  a  word  from  Sister  Angela,  the  girls  went  leaping 
and  laughing  downstairs  to  the  Meeting  Room,  which  was  a 
large  hall,  with  a  platform  at  the  farther  end  of  it  and  another 
picture  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  pierced  with  sharp  thorns,  on 
the  wall. 

The  Reverend  Mother  was  there  with  the  other  nuns  of  the 
Convent,  all  pale-faced  and  slow  eyed  women  wearing  rosaries, 
and  she  said  a  long  prayer,  to  which  the  scholars  (there  were 
seventy  or  eighty  altogether)  made  responses,  and  then  there 
was  silence  for  five  minutes,  which  were  supposed  to  be  devoted 
to  meditation,  although  I  could  not  help  seeing  that  some  of 
the  big  girls  were  whispering  to  each  other  while  their  heads 
were  down. 

After  that,  and  Mass  in  the  Church,  we  went  scurrying  away 
to  the  Refectory,  which  was  now  warm1  with  the  steam  from 
our  breakfast  and  bubbling  with  cheerful  voices,  making  a 
noise  that  was  like  water  boiling  in  a  saucepan. 

I  was  so  absorbed  by  all  I  saw  that  I  forgot  to  eat  until 
Mildred  nudged  me  to  do  so,  and  even  when  my  spoon  was 
half  way  to  my  mouth  something  happened  which  brought 
it  down  again. 

At  the  tinkle  of  a  hand-bell  one  of  the  big  girls  had  stepped 
up  to  the  reading-desk  and  begun  to  read  from  a  book  which 
I  afterwards  knew  to  be  "  The  Imitation  of  Christ. ' '  She  was 
about  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  her  face  was  so  vivid  that  I 
could  not  take  my  eyes  off  it. 


52  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

Her  complexion  was  fair  and  her  hair  was  auburn,  but  her 
eyes  were  so  dark  and  searching  that  when  she  raised  her 
head,  as  she  often  did,  they  seemed  to  look  through  and 
through  you. 

' '  Who  is  she  ? "  I  whispered. 

"Alma  Lier,"  Mildred  whispered  back,  and  when  breakfast 
was  over,  and  we  were  trooping  off  to  lessons,  she  told  me 
something  about  her. 

Alma  was  an  American.  Her  father  was  very  rich  and 
his  home  was  in  New  York.  But  her  mother  lived  in  Paris, 
though  she  was  staying  at  an  hotel  in  Rome  at  present,  and 
sometimes  she  came  in  a  carriage  to  take  her  daughter  for  a 
drive. 

Alma  was  the  cleverest  girl  in  the  school  too,  and  sometimes 
at  the  end  of  terms,  when  parents  and  friends  came  to  the 
Convent  and  one  of  the  Cardinals  distributed  the  prizes,  she 
had  so  many  books  to  take  away  that  she  could  hardly  carry 
them  down  from  the  platform. 

I  listened  to  this  with  admiring  awe,  thinking  Alma  the 
most  wonderful  and  worshipful  of  all  creatures,  and  when  I 
remember  it  now,  after  all  these  years,  and  the  bitter  experi- 
ences which  have  come  with  them,  I  hardly  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry  at  the  thought  that  such  was  the  impression 
she  first  made  on  me. 

My  class  was  with  the  youngest  of  the  children,  and  Sister 
Angela  was  my  teacher.  She  was  so  sweet  to  me  that  her 
encouragement  was  like  a  kiss  and  her  reproof  like  a  caress; 
but  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  Alma,  and  at  noon,  when 
the  bell  rang  for  lunch  and  Mildred  took  me  back  to  the 
Refectory,  I  wondered  if  the  same  girl  would  read  again. 

She  did,  but  this  time  in  a  foreign  language,  French  as 
Mildred  whispered — from  the  letters  of  the  Blessed  Margaret 
Mary  Alacoque — and  my  admiration  for  Alma  went  up  ten- 
fold. I  wondered  if  it  could  possibly  occur  that  I  should 
ever  come  to  know  her. 

There  is  no  worship  like  that  of  a  child,  and  life  for  me, 
which  had  seemed  so  cold  and  dark  the  day  before,  became 
warm  and  bright  with  a  new  splendour. 

I  was  impatient  of  everything  that  took  me  away  from  the 
opportunity  of  meeting  with  Alma — the  visit  to  the  lay-sisters 
to  be  measured  for  my  new  black  clothes,  the  three  o'clock 
"rosary,"  when  the  nuns  walked  with  their  classes  in  the 
sunshine,  and,  above  all,  the  voluntary  visit  to  the  Blessed 


MY  GIRLHOOD  53 

Sacrament  in  the  Church  of  the  Convent,  which  seemed  to 
me  large  and  gorgeous,  though  divided  across  the  middle  by 
an  open  bronze  screen,  called  a  Cancello — the  inner  half,  as 
Mildred  whispered,  being  for  the  inmates  of  the  school,  while 
the  outer  half  was  for  the  congregation  which  came  on  Sunday 
to  Benediction. 

But  at  four  o  'clock  we  had  dinner,  when  Alma  read  again — 
this  time  in  Italian — from  the  writings  of  Saint  Francis  of 
Sales — and  then,  to  my  infinite  delight,  came  a  long  recreation, 
when  all  the  girls  scampered  out  into  the  Convent  garden, 
which  was  still  bright  with  afternoon  sunshine  and  as  merry 
with  laughter  and  shouts  as  the  seashore  on  a  windy  summer 
morning. 

The  garden  was  a  large  bare  enclosure,  bounded  on  two 
sides  by  the  convent  buildings  and  on  the  other  two  by  a 
yellow  wall  and  an  avenue  made  by  a  line  of  stone  pines  with 
heads  like  open  umbrellas,  but  it  had  no  other  foliage  except 
an  old  tree  which  reminded  me  of  Tommy  the  Mate,  haying 
gnarled  and  sprawling  limbs,  and  standing  like  a  weather- 
beaten  old  sailor,  four-square  in  the  middle. 

A  number  of  the  girls  were  singing  and  dancing  around 
this  tree,  and  I  felt  so  happy  just  then  that  I  should  have 
loved  to  join  them,  but  I  was  consumed  by  a  desire  to  come  to 
close  quarters  with  the  object  of  my  devotion,  so  I  looked 
eagerly  about  me  and  asked  Mildred  if  Alma  was  likely  to  be 
there. 

' '  Sure  to  be, ' '  said  Mildred,  and  hardly  were  the  words  out 
of  her  mouth  when  Alma  herself  came  straight  down  in  our 
direction,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  admiring  girls,  who  were 
hanging  on  to  her  and  laughing  at  everything  she  said. 

My  heart  began  to  thump,  and  without  knowing  what  I 
was  doing  I  stopped  dead  short,  while  Mildred  went  on  a 
pace  or  two  ahead  of  me. 

Then  I  noticed  that  Alma  had  stopped  too,  and  that  her 
great  searching  eyes  were  looking  down  at  me.  In  my  ner- 
vousness, I  tried  to  smile,  but  Alma  continued  to  stare,  and 
at  length,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  accidentally  turned 
up  something  with  her  toe  that  was  little  and  ridiculous,  she 
said: 

' '  Goodness,  girls,  what 's  this  ? ' ' 

Then  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  in  which  the  other 
girls  joined,  and  looking  me  up  and  down  they  all  laughed 
together. 


54  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  knew  what  they  were  laughing  at — the  clothes  my  mother 
had  made  for  me  and  I  had  felt  so  proud  of.  That  burnt  me 
like  iron,  and  I  think  my  lip  must  have  dropped,  but  Alma 
showed  no  mercy. 

' '  Dare  say  the  little  doll  thinks  herself  pretty,  though, ' '  she 
said.  And  then  she  passed  on,  and  the  girls  with  her,  and  as 
they  went  off  they  looked  back  over  their  shoulders  and 
laughed  again. 

Never  since  has  any  human  creature — not  even  Alma  her- 
self— made  me  suffer  more  than  I  suffered  at  that  moment. 
My  throat  felt  tight,  tears  leapt  to  my  eyes,  disappointment, 
humiliation,  and  shame  swept  over  me  like  a  flood,  and  I 
stood  squeezing  my  little  handkerchief  in  my  hand  and  feeling 
as  if  I  could  have  died. 

At  the  next  moment  Mildred  stepped  back  to  me,  and  putting 
her  arm  about  my  waist  she  said : 

"Never  mind,  Mary.  She's  a  heartless  thing.  Don't  have 
anything  to  do  with  her. ' ' 

But  all  the  sunshine  had  gone  out  of  the  day  for  me  now 
and  I  cried  for  hours.  I  was  still  crying,  silently  but  bitterly, 
when,  at  eight  o'clock,  we  were  saying  the  night  prayers, 
and  I  saw  Alma,  who  was  in  the  opposite  benches,  whispering 
to  one  of  the  girls  who  sat  next  to  her  and  then  looking  straight 
across  at  me. 

And  at  nine  o  'clock  when  we  went  to  bed  I  was  crying  more 
than  ever,  so  that  after  the  good-night-bell  had  been  rung  and 
the  lights  had  been  put  down,  Sister  Angela,  not  knowing  the 
cause  of  my  sorrow,  stepped  up  to  my  bed  before  going  down 
stairs  for  her  own  studies,  and  whispered: 

"You  mustn't  fret  for  home,  Mary.  You  will  soon  get 
used  to  it." 

But  hardly  had  I  been  left  alone,  with  the  dull  pain  I  could 
find  no  ease  for,  when  somebody  touched  me  on  the  shoulder, 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  girl  in  her  nightdress  standing  beside 
me.  It  was  Alma  and  she  said: 

"Say,  little  girl,  is  your  name  O'Neill?" 

Trembling  with  nervousness  I  answered  that  it  was. 

"Do  you  belong  to  the  O'Neills  of  Elian?" 

Still  trembling  I  told  her  that  I  did. 

"My!"  she  said  in  quite  another  tone,  and  then  I  saw  that 
by  some  means  I  had  begun  to  look  different  in  her  eyes. 

After  a  moment  she  sat  on  the  side  of  my  bed  and  asked 
questions  about  my  home — if  it  was  not  large  and  very  old, 


MY  GIRLHOOD  55 

with  big  stone  staircases,  and  great  open  fireplaces,  and  broad 
terraces,  and  beautiful  walks  going  down  to  the  sea. 

I  was  so  filled  with  the  joy  of  finding  myself  looking  grand 
in  Alma's  eyes  that  I  answered  "yes"  and  "yes"  without 
thinking  too  closely  about  her  questions,  and  my  tears  were 
all  brushed  away  when  she  said: 

' '  I  knew  somebody  who  lived  in  your  house  once,  and  I  '11 
tell  her  all  about  you." 

She  stayed  a  few  moments  longer,  and  when  going  off  she 
whispered : 

"Hope  you  don't  feel  badly  about  my  laughing  in  the 
garden  to-day.  I  didn't  mean  a  thing.  But  if  any  of  the  girls 
laugh  again  just  say  you  're  Alma  Lier  's  friend  and  she 's  going 
to  take  care  of  you." 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears.  Some  great  new  splendour 
had  suddenly  dawned  upon  me  and  I  was  very  happy. 

I  did  not  know  then  that  the  house  which  Alma  had  been 
talking  of  was  not  my  father's  house,  but  Castle  Raa.  I  did 
not  know  then  that  the  person  who  had  lived  there  was  her 
mother,  and  that  in  her  comely  and  reckless  youth  she  had 
been  something  to  the  bad  Lord  Raa  who  had  lashed  my 
father  and  sworn  at  my  grandmother. 

I  did  not  know  anything  that  was  dead  and  buried  in  the 
past,  or  shrouded  and  veiled  in  the  future.  I  only  knew  that 
Alma  had  called  herself  my  friend  and  promised  to  take  care 
of  me.  So  with  a  glad  heart  I  went  to  sleep. 

FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

ALMA  kept  her  word,  though  perhaps  her  method  of  protection 
was  such  as  would  have  commended  itself  only  to  the  heart 
of  a  child. 

It  consisted  in  calling  me  Margaret  Mary  after  our  patron 
saint  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  in  taking  me  round  the  garden  dur- 
ing recreation  as  if  I  had  been  a  pet  poodle,  and,  above  all,  in 
making  my  bed  the  scene  of  the  conversaziones  which  some  of 
the  girls  held  at  night  when  they  were  supposed  to  be  asleep. 

The  secrecy  of  these  gatherings  flattered  me,  and  when  the 
unclouded  moon,  in  the  depths  of  the  deep  blue  Italian  sky, 
looked  in  on  my  group  of  girls  in  their  nightdresses,  bunched 
together  on  my  bed,  with  my  own  little  body  between,  I  had 
a  feeling  of  dignity  as  well  as  solemnity  and  awe. 

Of  course  Alma  was  the  chipf  spokeswoman  at  these  whis- 


56 

pered  conferences.  Sometimes  she  told  us  of  her  drives  into 
the  Borghese  Gardens,  where  she  saw  the  King  and  Queen,  or 
to  the  Hunt  on  the  Campagna,  where  she  met  the  flower  of  the 
aristocracy,  or  to  the  Pincio,  where  the  Municipal  band  played 
in  the  pavilion,  while  ladies  sat  in  their  carriages  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  officers  in  blue  cloaks  saluted  them  and  smiled. 

Sometimes  she  indicated  her  intentions  for  the  future,  which 
was  certainly  not  to  be  devoted  to  retreats  and  novenas,  or 
to  witness  another  black  dress  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  if  she 
married  (which  was  uncertain)  it  was  not  to  be  to  an  Ameri- 
can, but  to  a  Frenchman,  because  Frenchmen  had  "family" 
and  "blood,"  or  perhaps  to  an  Englishman,  if  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  House  of  Lords,  in  which  case  she  would  attend  all 
the  race-meetings  and  Coronations,  and  take  tea  at  the  Carlton, 
where  she  would  eat  meringues  glaces  every  day  and  have  as 
many  eclairs  as  she  liked. 

And  sometimes  she  would  tell  us  the  stories  of  the  novels 
which  she  bribed  one  of  the  washing-women  to  smuggle  into 
the  convent — stories  of  ladies  and  their  lovers,  and  of  intoxi- 
cating dreams  of  kissing  and  fondling,  at  which  the  bigger 
girls,  with  far-off  suggestions  of  sexual  mysteries  still  unex- 
plored, would  laugh  and  shudder,  and  then  Alma  would  say: 

"But  hush,  girls!    Margaret  Mary  will  be  shocked." 

Occasionally  these  conferences  would  be  interrupted  by 
Mildred's  voice  from  the  other  end  of  the  dormitory,  where 
she  would  raise  her  head  from  her  pillow  and  say : 

"Alma  Lier,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself — keeping 
that  child  up  when  she  ought  to  be  asleep,  instead  of  listening 
to  your  wicked  stories." 

' '  Helloa,  Mother  Mildred,  is  that  you  ? ' '  Alma  would  answer, 
and  then  the  girls  would  laugh,  and  Mildred  was  supposed 
to  be  covered  with  confusion. 

One  night  Sister  Angela's  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  stairs, 
and  then  the  girls  flew  back  to  their  beds,  where,  with  the 
furtive  instinct  of  their  age  and  sex,  they  pretended  to  be 
sleeping  soundly  when  the  Sister  entered  the  room.  But  the 
Sister  was  not  deceived,  and  walking  up  the  aisle  between  the 
beds  she  said  in  an  angry  tone : 

"Alma  Lier,  if  this  ever  occurs  again  I'll  step  down  to  the 
Reverend  Mother  and  tell  her  all  about  you." 

Little  as  I  was,  I  saw  that  between  Alma  and  Sister  Angela 
there  was  a  secret  feud,  which  must  soon  break  into  open 
rupture,  but  for  my  own  part  I  was  entirely  happy,  being  still 


MY  GIRLHOOD  57 

proud  of  Alma's  protection  and  only  feeling  any  misgivings 
when  Mildred's  melancholy  eyes  were  looking  at  me. 

Thus  week  followed  week  until  we  were  close  upon  Christ- 
mas, and  the  girls,  who  were  to  be  permitted  to  go  home  before 
the  Feast,  began  to  count  the  days  to  the  holidays.  I  counted 
them  too,  and  when  anybody  talked  of  her  brother  I  thought 
of  Martin  Conrad,  though  his  faithful  little  figure  was  fading 
away  from  me,  and  when  anybody  spoke  of  her  parents  I 
remembered  my  mother,  for  whom  my  affection  never 
failed. 

But,  within  a  week  from  the  time  for  breaking  up,  the 
Reverend  Mother  sent  for  me,  and  with  a  sinking  heart  I  went 
to  her  room,  knowing  well  what  she  was  going  to  say. 

"You  are  not  to  go  home  for  the  holidays  this  time,  my 
child.  You  are  to  remain  h,ere,  and  Sister  Angela  is  to  stay 
to  take  care  of  you." 

She  had  a  letter  from  Father  Dan,  telling  her  that  my 
mother  was  still  unwell,  and  for  this  and  other  reasons  it  was 
considered  best  that  I  should  not  return  at  Christmas. 

Father  Dan  had  written  a  letter  to  me  also,  beginning, 
"My  dear  daughter  in  Jesus"  and  ending  "Yours  in  Xt," 
saying  it  was  not  his  fault  that  he  could  not  fulfil  his  promise, 
but  my  father  was  much  from  home  now-a-days  and  Aunt 
Bridget  was  more  difficult  than  ever,  so  perhaps  I  should  be 
happier  at  the  Convent. 

It  was  a  bitter  blow,  though  the  bitterest  part  of  it  lay  in 
the  fear  that  the  girls  would  think  I  was  of  so  little  importance 
to  my  people  that  they  did  not  care  to  see  me. 

But  the  girls  were  too  eager  about  their  own  concerns  to 
care  much  about  me,  and  even  on  the  very  last  day  and  at  the 
very  last  moment,  when  everything  was  bustle  and  joy,  and 
boxes  were  being  carried  downstairs,  and  everybody  was 
kissing  everybody  else  and  wishing  each  other  a  Happy 
Christmas,  and  then  flying  away  like  mad  things,  and  I 
alone  was  being  left,  Alma  herself,  before  she  stepped  into 
a  carriage  in  which  a  stout  lady  wearing  furs  was  waiting 
to  receive  her,  only  said: 

' '  By-by,  Margaret  Mary !    Take  care  of  Sister  Angela. ' ' 

Next  day  the  Reverend  Mother  went  off  to  her  cottage  at 
Nemi,  and  the  other  nuns  and  novices  to  their  friends  in  the 
country,  and  then  Sister  Angela  and  I  Avere  alone  in  the  big 
empty  echoing  convent — save  for  two  elderly  lay  Sisters,  who 
cooked  and  cleaned  for  us,  and  the  Chaplain,  who  lived  by 


58  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

himself  in  a  little  white  hut  like  a  cell  which  stood  at  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  garden. 

We  moved  our  quarters  to  a  room  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
so  as  to  look  out  over  the  city,  and  down  into  the  piazza  which 
was  full  of  traffic,  and  after  a  while  we  had  many  cheerful 
hours  together. 

During  the  days  before  Christmas  we  spent  our  mornings 
in  visiting  the  churches  and  basilicas  where  there  were  little 
illuminated  models  of  the  Nativity,  with  the  Virgin  and  the 
Infant  Jesus  in  the  stable  among  the  straw.  The  afternoons 
we  spent  at  home  in  the  garden,  where  the  Chaplain,  in  his 
black  soutane  and  biretta,  was  always  sitting  under  the  old 
tree,  reading  his  breviary. 

His  name  was  Father  Giovanni  and  he  was  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  long,  thin,  pale  face,  and  when  Sister  Angela  first 
took  me  up  to  him  she  said: 

' '  This  is  our  Margaret  Mary. ' ' 

Then  his  sad  face  broke  into  warm  sunshine,  and  he  stroked 
my  head,  and  sent  me  away  to  skip  with  my  skipping-rope, 
while  he  and  Sister  Angela  sat  together  under  the  tree,  and 
afterwards  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  avenue  between  the  stone 
pines  and  the  wall,  until  they  came  to  his  cell  in  the  corner, 
where  she  craned  her  neck  at  the  open  door  as  if  she  would 
have  liked  to  go  in  and  make  things  more  tidy  and  comfortable. 

On  Christmas  Day  we  had  currant  cake  in  honour  of  the 
feast,  and  Sister  Angela  asked  Father  Giovanni  to  come  to  tea, 
and  he  came,  and  was  quite  cheerful,  so  that  when  the  Sister, 
who  was  also  very  happy,  signalled  to  me  to  take  some  mistletoe 
from  the  bottom  of  a  picture  I  held  it  over  his  head  and 
kissed  him  from  behind.  Then  he  snatched  me  up  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  me  back,  and  we  had  a  great  romp  round  the 
chairs  and  tables. 

But  the  Ave  Maria  began  to  ring  from  the  churches,  and 
Father  Giovanni  (according  to  the  rule  of  our  Convent)  hav- 
ing to  go,  he  kissed  me  again,  and  then  I  said : 

"Why  don't  you  kiss  Sister  Angela  too?" 

At  that  they  only  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed,  but 
after  a  moment  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  she  went  down- 
stairs to  see  him  out  into  the  garden. 

When  she  came  back  her  eyes  were  sparkling  and  her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and,  that  night,  when  she  took  away  her  black 
and  white  whimple  and  gorget  on  going  to  bed,  she  stood 
before  a  looking-glass  and  wound  her  beautiful  light  hair 


MY  GIRLHOOD  59 

round  her  finger  and  curled  it  over  her  forehead  in  the  way 
it  was  worn  by  the  ladies  we  saw  in  the  streets. 

I  think  it  was  two  nights  later  that  she  told  me  I  was  to  go 
to  bed  early  because  Facher  Giovanni  was  not  well  and  she 
would  have  to  go  over  to  see  him. 

She  went,  and  I  got  into  bed,  but  I  could  not  sleep,  and 
while  I  lay  waiting  for  Sister  Angela  I  listened  to  some  men 
who  as  they  crossed  the  piazza  were  singing,  in  tremulous 
voices,  to  their  mandolines  and  guitars,  what  I  believed  to  be 
love  songs,  for  I  had  begun  to  learn  Italian. 

"Oil  bella  Napoli.     Oh  suol  beato 
Onde  soiridere  volla  il  creato." 

It  was  late  when  Sister  Angela  came  back  and  then  she 
was  breathing  hard  as  if  she  had  been  running.  I  asked  if 
Father  Giovanni's  sickness  was  worse,  and  she  said  no,  it  was 
better,  and  I  was  to  say  nothing  about  it.  But  she  could  not 
rest  and  at  last  she  said: 

' '  Didn  't  we  forget  to  say  our  prayers,  Mary  ? ' ' 

So  I  got  up  again  and  Sister  Angela  said  one  of  the  beautiful 
prayers  out  of  our  prayer-book.  But  her  voice  was  very  low 
and  when  she  came  to  the  words: 

"0  Father  of  all  mankind,  forgive  all  sinners  who  repent 
of  their  sins, ' '  she  broke  down  altogether. 

I  thought  she  was  ill,  but  she  said  it  was  only  a  cold  she  had 
caught  in  crossing  the  garden  and  I  was  to  go  to  sleep  like  a 
good  girl  and  think  no  more  about  her. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  I  awoke,  and  Sister  Angela 
was  crying. 

FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER 

MOST  of  the  girls  were  depressed  when  they  returned  to  school, 
but  Alma  was  in  high  spirits,  and  on  the  first  night  of  the  term 
she  crept  over  to  my  bed  and  asked  what  we  had  been  doing 
during  the  holidays. 

"Not  a  thing,  eh?" 

I  answered  that  we  had  done  lots  of  things  and  been  very 
happy. 

"Happy?  In  this  gloomy  old  convent?  You  and  Sister 
Angela  alone?" 

I  told  her  we  had  two  lay  sisters — and  then  there  was  Father 
Giovanni. 

' '  Father  Giovanni  ?    That  serious  old  cross-bones  ? ' ' 


60  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  said  he  was  not  always  serious,  and  that  on  Christmas  Day 
he  had  come  to  tea  and  kissed  me  under  the  mistletoe. 

"Kissed  you  under  the  mistletoe!"  said  Alma,  and  then 
she  whispered  eagerly, 

"He  didn't  kiss  Sister  Angela,  did  he?" 

I  suppose  I  was  nattered  by  her  interest,  and  this  loosened 
my  tongue,  for  I  answered: 

"He  kissed  her  hand,  though." 

"Kissed  her  hand?  My!  ...  Of  course  she  was  very 
angry  .  .  .  wasn't  she  angry?" 

I  answered  no,  and  in  my  simplicity  I  proceeded  to  prove 
this  by  explaining  that  Sister  Angela  had  taken  Father 
Giovanni  down  to  the  door,  and  when  he  was  ill  she  had 
nursed  him. 

' '  Nursed  him  ?    In  his  own  house,  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  at  night,  too,  and  she  stayed  until  he  was  better,  and 
caught  a  cold  coming  back." 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Alma,  and  I  remember  that  I  was 
very  pleased  with  myself  during  this  interview,  for  by  the 
moonlight  which  was  then  shining  into  the  room,  I  could  see 
that  Alma's  eyes  were  sparkling. 

The  next  night  we  recommenced  our  conferences  in  bed, 
when  Alma  told  us  all  about  her  holiday,  which  she  had  spent 
' '  way  up  in  St.  Moritz, ' '  among  deep  snow  and  thick  ice,  skat- 
ing, bobbing,  lugging,  and  above  all  riding  astride,  and 
dragging  a  man  on  skis  behind  her. 

"Such  lots  of  fun,"  she  said.  And  the  best  of  it  was  at 
night  when  there  were  dances  and  fancy-dress  balls  with  com- 
pany which  included  all  the  smart  people  in  Europe,  and 
men  who  gave  a  girl  such  a  good  time  if  she  happened  to  be 
pretty  and  was  likely  to  have  a  dot. 

Alma  had  talked  so  eagerly  and  the  girls  had  listened  so 
intently,  that  nobody  was  aware  that  Sister  Angela  had 
returned  to  the  room  until  she  stepped  forward  and  said: 

"Alma  Lier,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Go  back  to  your  bed, 
miss,  this  very  minute." 

The  other  girls  crept  away  and  I  half  covered  my  face  with 
my  bed-clothes,  but  Alma  stood  up  to  Sister  Angela  and 
answered  her  back. 

"Go  to  bed  yourself,  and  don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  or 
you'll  pay  for  your  presumption." 

"Pay?  Presumption?  You  insolent  thing,  you  are  cor- 
rupting the  whole  school  and  are  an  utter  disgrace  to  it.  I 


MY  GIRLHOOD  61 

warned  you  that  I  would  tell  the  Reverend  Mother  what  you 
are,  and  now  I've  a  great  mind  to  do  it." 

"Do  it.  I  dare  you  to  do  it.  Do  it  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow morning  7  will  do  something." 

' '  What  will  you  do,  you  brazen  hussy  ? ' '  said  Sister  Angela, 
but  I  could  see  that  her  lip  was  trembling. 

' '  Never  mind  what.  If  I  'm  a  hussy  I  'm  not  a  hypocrite,  and 
as  for  corrupting  the  school,  and  being  a  disgrace  to  it,  I'll 
leave  the  Reverend  Mother  to  say  who  is  doing  that. ' ' 

Low  as  the  light  was  I  could  see  that  Sister  Angela  was 
deadly  pale.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  which  I 
thought  she  glanced  in  my  direction,  and  then  stammering 
something  which  I  did  not  hear,  she  left  the  dormitory. 

It  was  long  before  she  returned,  and  when  she  did  so  I  saw 
her  creep  into  her  cubicle  and  sit  there  for  quite  a  great  time 
before  going  to  bed.  My  heart  was  thumping  hard,  for  I  had 
a  vague  feeling  that  I  had  been  partly  to  blame  for  what  had 
occurred,  but  after  a  while  I  fell  asleep  and  remembered  no 
more  until  I  was  awakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by 
somebody  kissing  me  in  my  sleep. 

It  was  Sister  Angela,  and  she  was  turning  away,  but  I  called 
her  back,  and  she  knelt  by  my  bed  and  whispered : 

"Hush!  I  know  what  has  happened,  but  I  don't  blame 
you  for  it. ' ' 

I  noticed  that  she  was  wearing  her  out-door  cloak,  and 
that  she  was  breathing  rapidly,  just  as  she  did  on  the  night 
she  came  from  the  chaplain's  quarters,  and  when  I  asked  if 
she  was  going  anywhere  she  said  yes,  and  if  I  ever  heard  any- 
thing against  Sister  Angela  I  was  to  think  the  best  of  her. 

"But  you  are  so  good     .     .     ." 

"No,  I  am  not  good.  I  am  very  wicked.  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  being  a  nun,  but  I  'm  glad  now  that  I  'm  only 
a  novice  and  have  never  taken  the  vows." 

After  that  she  told  me  to  go  to  sleep,  and  then  she  kissed 
me  again,  and  I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry,  but  she  rose 
hurriedly  and  left  the  room. 

Next  morning  after  the  getting-up  bell  had  been  rung,  and 
I  had  roused  myself  to  full  consciousness,  I  found  that  four 
or  five  nuns  were  standing  together  near  the  door  of  the 
dormitory  talking  about  something  that  had  happened  during 
the  night — Sister  Angela  had  gone! 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  when,  full  of  this  exciting  event, 
the  girls  went  bustling  down  to  the  Meeting  Room  they  found 


62  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

the  nuns  in  great  agitation  over  an  incident  of  still  deeper 
gravity — Father  Giovanni  also  had  disappeared! 

A  convent  school  is  like  a  shell  on  the  shore  of  a  creek, 
always  rumbling  with  the  rumour  of  the  little  sea  it  lives 
under;  and  by  noon  the  girls,  who  had  been  palpitating  with 
curiosity,  thought  they  knew  everything  that  had  happened — 
how  at  four  in  the  morning  Father  Giovanni  and  Sister  Angela 
had  been  seen  to  come  out  of  the  little  door  which  connected 
the  garden  with  the  street;  how  at  seven  they  had  entered  a 
clothing  emporium  in  the  Corso,  where  going  in  at  one  door  as 
priest  and  nun  they  had  come  out  at  another  as  ordinary 
civilians ;  how  at  eight  they  had  taken  the  first  train  to  Civita 
Vecchia,  arriving  in  tune  to  catch  a  steamer  sailing  at  ten, 
and  how  they  were  now  on  their  way  to  England. 

By  some  mysterious  instinct  of  their  sex  the  girls  had 
gathered  with  glistening  eyes  in  front  of  the  chaplain's 
deserted  quarters,  where  Ahna  leaned  against  the  wall  with 
her  insteps  crossed  and  while  the  others  talked  she  smiled, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "I  told  you  so." 

As  for  me  I  was  utterly  wretched,  and  being  now  quite 
certain  that  I  was  the  sole  cause  of  Sister  Angela 's  misfortune, 
I  was  sitting  under  the  tree  in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  when 
Alma,  surrounded  by  her  usual  group  of  girls,  came  down 
on  me. 

"What's  this?"  she  said.  "Margaret  Mary  crying?  Feel- 
ing badly  for  Sister  Angela,  is  she?  Why,  you  little  silly, 
you  needn't  cry  for  her.  She's  having  the  time  of  her  life, 
she  is!" 

At  this  the  girls  laughed  and  shuddered,  as  they  used  to  do 
when  Alma  told  them  stories,  but  just  at  that  moment  the  nun 
with  the  stern  face  (she  was  the  Mother  of  the  Novices)  came 
up  and  said,  solemnly: 

"Ahna  Lier,  the  Reverend  Mother  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

"To  me?"  said  Alma,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  but  at  the  next 
moment  she  went  off  jauntily. 

Hours  passed  and  Ahna  did  not  return,  and  nothing 
occurred  until  afternoon  "rosary,"  when  the  Mother  of  the 
Novices  came  again  and  taking  me  by  the  hand  said : 

"Come  with  me,  my  child." 

I  knew  quite  well  where  we  were  going  to,  and  my  lip  was 
trembling  when  we  entered  the  Reverend  Mother's  room,  for 
Alma  was  there,  sitting  by  the  stove,  and  close  beside  her,  with 


MY  GIRLHOOD  63 

an  angry  look,  was  the  stout  lady  in  furs  whom  I  had  seen 
in  the  carriage  at  the  beginning  of  the  holidays. 

' '  Don 't  be  afraid, ' '  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  drawing 
me  to  her  side  she  asked  me  to  tell  her  what  I  had  told  Alma 
about  Sister  Angela. 

I  repeated  our  conversation  as  nearly  as  I  could  remember 
it,  and  more  than  once  Alma  nodded  her  head  as  if  in  assent, 
but  the  Reverend  Mother's  face  grew  darker  at  every  word 
and,  seeing  this,  I  said : 

' '  But  if  Sister  Angela  did  anything  wrong  I  'm  sure  she  was 
very  sorry,  for  when  she  came  back  she  said  her  prayers, 
and  when  she  got  to  'Father  of  all  mankind,  forgive  all 
sinners  .  .  .'  ' 

"Yes,  yes,  that  will  do,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  and 
then  she  handed  me  back  to  the  Mother  of  the  Novices,  telling 
her  to  warn  me  to  say  nothing  to  the  other  children. 

Alma  did  not  return  to  us  at  dinner,  or  at  recreation,  or  at 
chapel  (when  another  chaplain  said  vespers),  or  even  at  nine 
o'clock,  when  we  went  to  bed.  But  next  morning,  almost  as 
soon  as  the  Mother  of  the  Novices  had  left  the  dormitory,  she 
burst  into  the  room  saying: 

"I'm  leaving  this  silly  old  convent,  girls.  Mother  has 
brought  the  carriage,  and  I've  only  come  to  gather  up  my 
belongings. ' ' 

Nobody  spoke,  and  while  she  wrapped  up  her  brushes  and 
combs  in  her  nightdress,  she  joked  about  Sister  Angela  and 
Father  Giovanni  and  then  about  Mildred  Bankes,  whom  she 
called  "Reverend  Mother  Mildred,"  saying  it  would  be  her 
turn  next. 

Then  she  tipped  up  her  mattress,  and  taking  a  novel  from 
under  it  she  threw  the  book  on  to  my  bed,  saying : 

"Margaret  Mary  will  have  to  be  your  story-teller  now. 
By-by,  girls!" 

Nobody  laughed.  For  the  first  tune  Alma's  humour  had 
failed  her,  and  when  we  went  downstairs  to  the  Meeting  Room 
it  was  with  sedate  and  quiet  steps. 

The  nuns  were  all  there,  with  their  rosaries  and  crosses, 
looking  as  calm  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  but  the  girls  were 
thinking  of  Alma,  and  when,  after  prayers,  during  the  five 
minutes  of  silence  for  meditation,  we  heard  the  wheels  of  a 
carriage  going  off  outside,  we  knew  what  had  happened — 
Alma  had  gone. 


64  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

We  were  rising  to  go  to  Mass  when  the  Reverend  Mother 
said, 

' '  Children,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you.  You  all  know  that 
one  of  our  novices  has  left  us.  You  also  know  that  one  of  our 
scholars  has  just  gone.  It  is  my  wish  that  you  should  forget 
both  of  them,  and  I  shall  look  upon  it  as  an  act  of  disobedience 
if  any  girl  in  the  Convent  ever  mentions  their  names  again." 

All  that  day  I  was  in  deep  distress,  and  when,  night  coming, 
I  took  my  troubles  to  bed,  telling  myself  I  had  now  lost  Alma 
also,  and  it  was  all  my  fault,  somebody  put  her  arms  about  me 
in  the  darkness  and  whispered : 

"Mary  O'Neill,  are  you  awake?" 

It  was  Mildred,  and  I  suppose  my  snuffling  answered  her, 
for  she  said : 

"You  mustn't  cry  for  Alma  Lier.  She  was  no  friend  of 
yours,  and  it  was  the  best  thing  that  ever  happened  to  you 
when  she  was  turned  out  of  the  convent. ' ' 

SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

rA  CHILD  lives  from  hour  to  hour,  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  that  my  heart  was  made  desolate  by  the  loss  of  my 
two  friends  it  was  quickened  to  a  new  interest. 

Immediately  after  the  departure  of  Sister  Angela  and  Alma 
we  were  all  gathered  in  the  Meeting  Room  for  our  weekly 
rehearsal  of  the  music  of  the  Benediction — the  girls,  the 
novices,  the  nuns,  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  a  Maestro  from 
the  Pope's  choir,  a  short  fat  man,  who  wore  a  black  soutane 
and  a  short  lace  tippet. 

Benediction  was  the  only  service  of  our  church  which  I 
knew,  being  the  one  my  mother  loved  best  and  could  do  most 
of  for  herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  invalid  room,  but  the  form 
used  in  the  Convent  differed  from  that  to  which  I  had  been 
accustomed,  and  even  the  Tantum,  ergo  and  the  0  Salutaris 
Hostia  I  could  not  sing. 

On  this  occasion  a  litany  was  added  which  I  had  heard 
before,  and  then  came  a  hymn  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  which 
I  remembered  well.  My  mother  sang  it  herself  and  taught  me 
to  sing  it,  so  that  when  the  Maestro,  swinging  his  little  ivory 
baton,  began  in  his  alto  voice — 

"Ave  maris  stella, 
Dei  Mater  alma — " 

I  joined  in  with  the  rest,  but  sang  in  English  instead  of  Latin. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  65 

Of  all  appeals  to  the  memory  that  of  music  is  the  strongest, 
and  after  a  moment  I  forgot  that  I  was  at  school  in  Rome, 
being  back  in  my  mother's  room  in  Elian,  standing  by  her 
piano  and  singing  while  she  played.  I  think  I  must  have 
let  my  little  voice  go,  just  as  I  used  to  do  at  home,  when  it 
rang  up  to  the  wooden  rafters,  for  utterly  lost  to  my  surround- 
ings I  had  got  as  far  as — 

"Virgin  of  all  virgins, 
To  thy  shelter  take  us — " 

when  suddenly  I  became  aware  that  I  alone  was  singing,  the 
children  about  me  being  silent,  and  even  the  Maestro 's  baton 
slowing  down.  Then  I  saw  that  all  eyes  were  turned  in  my 
direction,  and  overwhelmed  with  confusion  I  stopped,  for  my 
voice  broke  and  slittered  into  silence. 

' '  Go  on,  little  angel, ' '  said  the  Maestro,  but  I  was  trembling 
all  over  by  this  time  and  could  not  utter  a  sound. 

Nevertheless  the  Reverend  Mother  said :  ' '  Let  Mary  0  'Neill 
sing  the  hymn  in  church  in  future." 

As  soon  as  I  had  conquered  my  nervousness  at  singing  in 
the  presence  of  the  girls,  I  did  so,  singing  the  first  line  of 
each  verse  alone,  and  I  remember  to  have  heard  that  the  con- 
gregations on  Sunday  afternoons  grew  larger  and  larger,  until, 
within  a  few  weeks,  the  church  was  densely  crowded. 

Perhaps  my  childish  heart  was  stirred  by  vanity  in  all  this, 
for  I  remember  that  ladies  in  beautiful  dresses  would  crowd 
to  the  bronze  screen  that  separate J  us  from  the  public  and 
whisper  among  themselves,  "Which  is  she?"  "The  little 
one  in  the  green  scarf  with  the  big  eyes ! "  "  God  bless  her ! ' ' 

But  surely  it  was  a  good  thing  that  at  length  life  had  begun 
to  have  a  certain  joy  for  me,  for  as  time  went  on  I  became 
absorbed  in  the  life  of  the  Convent,  and  particularly  in  the 
services  of  the  church,  so  that  home  itself  began  to  fade  away, 
and  when  the  holidays  came  round  and  excuses  were  received 
for  not  sending  for  me,  the  pain  of  my  disappointment  became 
less  and  less  until  at  last  it  disappeared  altogether. 

If  ever  a  child  loved  her  mother  I  did,  and  there  were 
moments  when  I  reproached  myself  with  not  thinking  of  her 
for  a  whole  day.  These  were  the  moments  when  a  letter 
came  from  Father  Dan,  telling  me  she  was  less  well  than 
before  and  her  spark  of  life  had  to  be  coaxed  and  trimmed  or 
it  would  splutter  out  altogether. 

But  the  effect  of  such  warnings  was  wiped  away  when  my 

E 


66  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

mother  wrote  herself,  saying  I  was  to  be  happy  as  she  was 
happy,  because  she  knew  that  though  so  long  separated  we 
should  soon  be  together,  and  the  time  would  not  seem  long. 

Not  understanding  the  deeper  meaning  that  lay  behind 
words  like  these,  I  was  nothing  loath  to  put  aside  the  thought 
of  home  until  little  by  little  it  faded  away  from  me  in  the 
distance,  just  as  the  island  itself  had  done  on  the  day  when  I 
sailed  out  with  Martin  Conrad  on  our  great  voyage  of  explora- 
tion to  St.  Mary's  Rock. 

Thus  two  years  and  a  half  passed  since  I  arrived  in  Rome 
before  the  great  fact  befell  me  which  was  to  wipe  all  other 
facts  out  of  my  remembrance. 

It  was  Holy  Week,  the  season  of  all  seasons  for  devotion 
to  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  our  Convent  was  palpitating  with 
the  joy  of  its  spiritual  duties,  the  many  offices,  the  masses  for 
the  repose  of  the  souls  in  Purgatory,  the  preparations  for 
Tenebrae,  with  the  chanting  of  the  Miserere,  and  for  Holy 
Saturday  and  Easter  Day,  with  the  singing  of  the  Gloria  and 
the  return  of  the  Alleluia. 

But  beyond  all  this  for  me  were  the  arrangements  for  my 
first  confession,  which,  coming  a  little  late,  I  made  with  ten 
or  twelve  other  girls  of  my  sodality,  feeling  so  faint  when  I 
took  my  turn  and  knelt  by  the  grating,  and  heard  the  whisper- 
ing voice  within,  like  something  from  the  unseen,  something 
supernatural,  something  divine,  that  I  forgot  all  I  had  come 
to  say  and  the  priest  had  to  prompt  me. 

And  bej^ond  that  again  were  the  arrangements  for  my  first 
communion,  which  was  to  take  place  on  Easter  morning,  when 
I  was  to  walk  in  procession  with  the  other  girls,  dressed  all 
in  white,  behind  a  gilded  figure  of  the  Virgin,  singing  "Ave 
maris  stella, "  through  the  piazza  into  the  church,  where  one 
of  the  Cardinals,  in  the  presence  of  the  fathers  and  mothers 
of  the  other  children,  was  to  put  the  Holy  Wafer  on  our 
tongues  and  we  were  to  know  for  the  first  time  the  joy  of 
communion  with  our  Lord. 

But  that  was  not  to  be  for  me. 

On  the  morning  of  Holy  Wednesday  the  blow  fell.  The 
luminous  grey  of  the  Italian  dawn  was  filtering  through  the 
windows  of  the  dormitory,  like  the  light  in  a  tomb,  and  a 
multitude  of  little  birds  on  the  old  tree  in  the  garden  were 
making  a  noise  like  water  falling  on  small  stones  in  a  fountain, 
when  the  Mother  of  the  Novices  came  to  my  bedside  and  said : 


MY  GIRLHOOD  67 

"You  are  to  go  to  the  Reverend  Mother  as  soon  as  possible, 
my  child." 

Her  voice,  usually  severe,  was  so  soft  that  I  knew  some- 
thing had  happened,  and  when  I  went  downstairs  I  also 
knew,  before  the  Reverend  Mother  had  spoken,  what  she  was 
going  to  say. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  "I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  your  mother 
is  ill." 

I  listened  intently,  fearing  that  worse  would  follow. 

"She  is  very  ill — very  seriously  ill,  and  she  wishes  to  see 
you.  Therefore  you  are  to  go  home  immediately. ' ' 

The  tears  sprang  to  my  eyes,  and  the  Reverend  Mother 
drew  me  to  her  side  and  laid  my  head  on  her  breast  and 
comforted  me,  saying  my  dear  mother  had  lived  the  life  of  a 
good  Christian  and  could  safely  trust  in  the  redeeming  blood 
of  our  Blessed  Saviour.  But  I  thought  she  must  have  some 
knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  my  life  at  home,  for  she  told 
me  that  whatever  happened  I  was  to  come  back  to  her. 

"Tell  your  father  you  wish  to  come  back  to  me,"  she  said, 
and  then  she  explained  the  arrangements  that  were  being 
made  for  my  journey. 

I  was  to  travel  alone  by  the  Paris  express  which  left  Rome 
at  six  o'clock  that  evening.  The  Mother  of  the  Novices  was 
to  put  me  in  a  sleeping  car  and  see  that  the  greatest  care 
would  be  taken  of  me  until  I  arrived  at  Calais,  where  Father 
Donovan  was  to  meet  the  train  and  take  me  home. 

I  cried  a  great  deal,  I  remember,  but  everybody  in  the 
Convent  was  kind,  and  when,  of  my  own  choice,  I  returned  to 
the  girls  at  recreation,  the  sinister  sense  of  dignity  which  by 
some  strange  irony  of  fate  comes  to  all  children  when  the  Angel 
of  Death  is  hovering  over  them,  came  to  me  also — poor,  helpless 
innocent — and  I  felt  a  certain  distinction  in  my  sorrow. 

At  five  o  'clock  the  omnibus  of  the  Convent  had  been  brought 
round  to  the  door,  and  I  was  seated  in  one  corner  of  it,  with 
the  Mother  of  the  Novices  in  front  of  me,  when  Mildred 
Bankes  came  running  breathlessly  downstairs  to  say  that  the 
Reverend  Mother  had  given  her  permission  to  see  me  off. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mildred  and  I  were  sitting  in  a  compart- 
ment of  the  Wagon-Lit,  while  the  Mother  was  talking  to  the 
conductor  on  the  platform. 

Mildred,  whose  eyes  were  wet,  was  saying  something  about 
herself  which  seems  pitiful  enough  now  in  the  light  of  what 
has  happened  since. 


68  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

She  was  to  leave  the  Convent  soon,  and  before  I  returned 
to  it  she  would  be  gone.  She  was  poor  and  an  orphan,  both 
her  parents  being  dead,  and  if  she  had  her  own  way  she 
would  become  a  nun.  In  any  case  our  circumstances  would 
be  so  different,  our  ways  of  life  so  far  apart,  that  we  might 
never  meet  again;  but  if  ... 

Before  she  had  finished  a  bell  rang  on  the  platform,  and 
a  moment  or  two  afterwards  the  train  slid  out  of  the  station. 

Then  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  realise  the  weight  of  the 
blow  that  had  fallen  on  me.  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  big 
compartment,  we  were  running  into  the  Campagna,  the 
heavens  were  ablaze  with  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  which  was 
like  fields  of  glistening  fire,  but  darkness  seemed  to  have 
fallen  on  all  the  world. 

SEVENTEENTH  CHAPTER 

EARLY  on  Good  Friday  I  arrived  at  Calais.  It  was  a  misty, 
rimy,  clammy  morning,  and  a  thick  fog  was  lying  over  the 
Channel. 

Almost  before  the  train  stopped  I  saw  Father  Dan,  with  his 
coat  collar  turned  up,  waiting  for  me  on  the  platform.  I 
could  see  that  he  was  greatly  moved  at  the  sight  of  me,  but 
was  trying  hard  to  maintain  his  composure. 

"Now  don't  worry,  my  child,  don't  worry,"  he  said.  "It 
will  be  all  ri  .  .  .  But  how  well  you  are  looking!  And 
how  you  have  grown !  And  how  glad  your  poor  mother  will 
be  to  see  you!" 

I  tried  to  ask  how  she  was.    "Is  she     .     .     ." 

"Yes,  thank  God,  she's  alive,  and  while  there's  life  there's 
hope." 

We  travelled  straight  through  without  stopping  and  arrived 
at  Blackwater  at  seven  the  same  evening.  There  we  took 
train,  for  railways  were  running  in  Elian  now,  and  down  the 
sweet  valleys  that  used  to  be  green  with  grass,  and  through 
the  little  crofts  that  used  to  be  red  with  fuchsia,  there  was 
a  long  raw  welt  of  upturned  earth. 

At  the  station  of  our  village  my  father's  carriage  was 
waiting  for  us  and  a  strange  footman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  answer  to  some  whispered  question  of  Father  Dan's,  and 
from  that  I  gathered  that  my  mother's  condition  was 
unchanged. 

We  reached  home  at  dusk,  just  as  somebody  was  lighting  a 


MY  GIRLHOOD  69 

line  of  new  electric  lamps  that  had  been  set  up  in  the  drive 
to  show  the  way  for  the  carriage  under  the  chestnuts  in  which 
the  rooks  used  to  build  and  caw. 

I  knew  the  turn  of  the  path  from  which  the  house  could  be 
first  seen,  and  I  looked  for  it,  remembering  the  last  glimpse 
I  had  of  my  mother  at  her  window.  Father  Dan  looked,  too, 
but  for  another  reason — to  see  if  the  blinds  were  down. 

Aunt  Bridget  was  in  the  hall,  and  when  Father  Dan,  who 
had  grown  more  and  more  excited  as  we  approached  the  end 
of  our  journey,  asked  how  my  mother  was  now,  poor  thing, 
she  answered: 

"Worse;  distinctly  worse;  past  recognising  anybody;  so 
all  this  trouble  and  expense  has  been  wasted." 

As  she  had  barely  recognised  me  I  ran  upstairs  with  a  timid 
and  quiet  step  and  without  waiting  to  take  off  my  outer  clothes 
made  my  way  to  my  mother's  bedroom. 

I  remember  the  heavy  atmosphere  of  the  room  as  I  opened 
the  door.  I  remember  the  sense  I  had  of  its  being  lower  and 
smaller  than  I  thought.  I  remember  the  black  four-foot  bed- 
stead with  the  rosary  hanging  on  a  brass  nail  at  the  pillow  end. 
I  remember  my  little  cot  which  still  stood  in  the  same  place 
and  contained  some  of  the  clothes  I  had  worn  as  a  child,  and 
even  some  of  the  toys  I  had  played  with. 

A  strange  woman,  in  the  costume  of  a  nurse,  turned  to 
look  at  me  as  I  entered,  but  I  did  not  at  first  see  my  mother, 
and  when  at  length  I  did  see  her,  with  her  eyes  closed,  she 
looked  so  white  and  small  as  to  be  almost  hidden  in  the  big 
white  bed. 

Presently  Father  Dan  came  in,  followed  by  Doctor  Conrad 
and  Aunt  Bridget,  and  finally  my  father,  who  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  and  had  a  pen  in  his  ear,  I  remember. 

Then  Father  Dan,  who  was  trembling  very  much,  took  me 
by  the  hand  and  led  me  to  my  mother's  side,  where  stooping 
over  her,  and  making  his  voice  very  low,  yet  speaking  as  one 
who  was  calling  into  a  long  tunnel,  he  said : 

"My  daughter!  My  daughter!  Here  is  our  little  Mary. 
She  has  come  home  to  see  you." 

Never  shall  I  forget  what  followed.  First,  my  mother's 
long  lashes  parted  and  she  looked  at  me  with  a  dazed  expres- 
sion as  if  still  in  a  sort  of  dream.  Then  her  big  eyes  began  to 
blaze  like  torches  in  dark  hollows,  and  then  (though  they  had 
thought  her  strength  was  gone  and  her  voice  would  never  be 


70  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

heard  again)  she  raised  herself  in  her  bed,  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  me,  and  cried  in  loud  strong  tones : 

' '  Mally  veen !    My  Mally  veen ! ' ' 

How  long  I  lay  with  my  arms  about  my  mother,  and  my 
mother 's  arms  about  me  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  over 
my  head  I  heard  Father  Dan  saying,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child : 

"You  are  happy  now,  are  you  not?" 

' '  Yes,  yes,  I  am  happy  now, ' '  my  mother  answered. 

"You  have  everything  you  want ? ' ' 

' '  Everything — everything ! ' ' 

Then  came  my  father's  voice,  saying: 

"Well,  you've  got  your  girl,  Isabel.  You  wanted  her,  so 
we  sent  for  her,  and  here  she  is." 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  Daniel,"  said  my  mother, 
who  was  kissing  my  forehead  and  crying  in  her  joy. 

When  I  raised  my  head  I  found  Father  Dan  in  great  excite- 
ment. 

"Did  you  see  that  then?"  he  was  saying  to  Doctor  Conrad. 
"I  would  have  gone  on  my  knees  all  the  way  to  Blackwater 
to  see  it." 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  it  possible,"  the  Doctor  replied. 

"Ah,  what  children  we  are,  entirely.  God  confounds  all 
our  reckoning.  We  can't  count  with  His  miracles.  And 
the  greatest  of  all  miracles  is  a  mother's  love  for  her 
child." 

"Let  us  leave  her  now,  though,"  said  the  Doctor.  "She's 
like  herself  again,  but  still  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  let  us  leave  them  together,"  whispered  Father  Dan, 
and  having  swept  everybody  out  before  him  (I  thought  Aunt 
Bridget  went  away  ashamed)  he  stepped  off  himself  on  tiptoe, 
as  if  treading  on  holy  ground. 

Then  my  mother,  who  was  holding  my  hand  and  sometimes 
putting  it  to  her  lips,  said: 

"Tell  me  everything  that  has  happened." 

As  soon  as  my  little  tongue  was  loosed  I  told  her  all  about 
my  life  at  the  Convent — about  the  Reverend  Mother  and 
the  nuns  and  the  novices  and  the  girls  (all  except  Sister 
Angela  and  Alma)  and  the  singing  of  the  hymn  to  the  Virgin 
• — talking  on  and  on  and  on,  without  observing  that,  after  a 
while,  my  mother's  eyes  had  closed  again,  and  that  her  hand 
had  become  cold  and  moist. 

At  length  she  said:  "Is  it  getting  dark,  Mary?" 

I  told  her  it  was  night  and  the  lamp  was  burning. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  71 

"Is  it  going  out  then?"  she  asked,  and  when  I  answered 
that  it  was  not  she  did  not  seem  to  hear,  so  I  stopped  talking, 
and  for  some  time  there  was  silence  in  which  I  heard  nothing 
but  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  barking 
of  a  sheep  dog  a  long  way  off,  and  the  husky  breathing  in  my 
mother's  throat. 

I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  when  the  nurse  returned. 
She  was  going  to  speak  quite  cheerfully,  but  after  a  glance  at 
my  mother  she  went  out  quickly  and  came  back  in  a  moment 
with  Doctor  Conrad  and  Father  Dan. 

I  heard  the  doctor  say  something  about  a  change,  whereupon 
Father  Dan  hurried  away,  and  in  a  moment  there  was  much 
confusion.  The  nurse  spoke  of  taking  me  to  another  room 
but  the  doctor  said : 

"No,  our  little  woman  will  be  brave,"  and  then  leading  me 
aside  he  whispered  that  God  was  sending  for  my  mother  and 
I  must  be  quiet  and  not  cry. 

Partly  undressing  I  climbed  into  my  cot  and  lay  still  for 
the  next  half  hour,  while  the  doctor  held  his  hand  on  my 
mother's  pulse  and  the  nurse  spread  a  linen  cloth  over  a  table 
and  put  four  or  five  lighted  candles  on  it. 

I  remember  that  I  was  thinking  that  if  "God  sending  for 
my  mother"  meant  that  she  was  to  be  put  into  a  box  and 
buried  under  the  ground  it  was  terrible  and  cruel,  and  perhaps 
if  I  prayed  to  our  Lady  He  would  not  find  it  in  His  heart 
to  do  so.  I  was  trying  to  do  this,  beginning  under  my 
breath,  "0  Holy  Virgin,  thou  art  so  lovely,  thou  art  so 
gracious  .  .  ."  when  the  nurse  said: 

"Here  they  are  back  again." 

Then  I  heard  footsteps  outside,  and  going  to  the  window  I 
saw  a  sight  not  unlike  that  which  I  had  seen  on  the  night 
of  the  Waits. 

A  group  of  men  were  coming  towards  the  house,  with 
Father  Dan  in  the  middle  of  them.  Father  Dan,  with  his 
coat  hung  over  his  arms  like  a  cloak,  was  carrying  something 
white  in  both  hands,  and  the  men  were  carrying  torches  to 
light  him  on  his  way. 

I  knew  what  it  was — it  was  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  which 
they  were  bringing  to  my  mother,  and  when  Father  Dan  had 
come  into  the  room,  saying  "Peace  be  to  this  house,"  and  laid 
a  little  white  box  on  the  table,  and  thrown  off  his  coat,  he 
was  wearing  his  priest's  vestments  underneath. 

Then  the  whole  of  my  father's  household — all  except  my 


72  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

father  himself — came  into  my  mother's  room,  including 
Aunt  Bridget,  who  sat  with  folded  arms  in  the  darkness  by 
the  wall,  and  the  servants,  who  knelt  in  a  group  by  the  door. 

Father  Dan  roused  my  mother  by  calling  to  her  again, 
and  after  she  had  opened  her  eyes  he  began  to  read.  Some- 
times his  voice  seemed  to  be  choked  with  sobs,  as  if  the  heart 
of  the  man  were  suffering,  and  sometimes  it  pealed  out  loudly 
as  if  the  soul  of  the  priest  were  inspiring  him. 

After  Communion  he  gave  my  mother  Extreme  Unction — 
anointing  the  sweet  eyes  which  had  seen  no  evil,  the  dear  lips 
which  had  uttered  no  wrong,  and  the  feet  which  had  walked 
in  the  ways  of  God. 

All  this  time  there  was  a  solemn  hush  in  the  house  like 
that  of  a  church — no  sound  within  except  my  father's  meas- 
ured tread  in  the  room  below,  and  none  without  except  the 
muffled  murmur  which  the  sea  makes  when  it  is  far  away  and 
going  out. 

When  all  was  over  my  mother  seemed  more  at  ease,  and 
after  asking  for  me  and  being  told  I  was  in  the  cot,  she  said : 

"You  must  all  go  and  rest.  Mary  and  I  will  be  quite 
right  now." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  my  mother  and  I  were  alone 
once  more,  and  then  she  called  me  into  her  bed  and  clasped 
her  arms  about  me  and  I  lay  with  my  face  hidden  in  her  neck. 

What  happened  thereafter  seems  to  be  too  sacred  to  write 
of,  almost  too  sacred  to  think  about,  yet  it  is  all  as  a  memory 
of  yesterday,  while  other  events  of  my  life  have  floated  away 
to  the  ocean  of  things  that  are  forgotten  and  lost. 

' '  Listen,  darling, ' '  she  said,  and  then,  speaking  in  whispers, 
she  told  me.  she  had  heard  all  I  had  said  about  the  Convent, 
and  wondered  if  I  would  not  like  to  live  there  always,  be- 
coming one  of  the  good  and  holy  nuns. 

I  must  have  made  some  kind  of  protest,  for  she  went  on  to 
say  how  hard  the  world  was  to  a  woman  and  how  difficult 
she  had  found  it. 

"Not  that  your  father  has  been  to  blame — you  must  never 
think  that,  Mary,  yet  still  .  .  . " 

But  tears  from  her  tender  heart  were  stealing  down  her 
face  and  she  had  to  stop. 

Even  yet  I  had  not  realised  all  that  the  solemn  time  fore- 
boded, for  I  said  something  about  staying  with  my  mother; 
and  then  in  her  sweet  voice,  she  told  me  nervously,  breaking 
the  news  to  me  gently,  that  she  was  going  to  leave  me,  that 


MY  GIRLHOOD  73 

she  was  going  to  heaven,  but  she  would  think  of  me  when  she 
was  there,  and  if  God  permitted  she  would  watch  over  me,  or, 
if  that  might  not  be,  she  would  ask  our  Lady  to  do  so. 

"So  you  see  we  shall  never  be  parted,  never  really.  We 
shall  always  be  together.  Something  tells  me  that  wherever 
you  are,  and  whatever  you  are  doing,  I  shall  know  all  about  it. ' ' 

This  comforted  me,  and  I  think  it  comforted  my  mother 
also,  though  God  knows  if  it  would  have  done  so,  if,  with  her 
dying  eyes,  she  could  have  seen  what  was  waiting  for  her 
child. 

It  fills  my  heart  brimful  to  think  of  what  happened  next. 

She  told  me  to  say  a  De  Profundis  for  her  sometimes,  and 
to  think  of  her  when  I  sang  the  hymn  to  the  Virgin.  Then 
she  kissed  me  and  told  me  to  go  to  sleep,  saying  she  was 
going  to  sleep  too,  and  if  it  should  prove  to  be  the  eternal 
sleep,  it  would  be  only  like  going  to  sleep  at  night  and  awak- 
ing in  the  morning,  and  then  we  should  be  together  again, 
and  "the  time  between  would  not  seem  long." 

"So  good-night,  darling,  and  God  bless  you,"  she  said. 

And  as  well  as  I  could  I  answered  her  "Good-night!" 

"When  I  awoke  from  the  profound  slumber  of  childhood  it 
was  noon  of  the  next  day  and  the  sun  was  shining.  Doctor  Con- 
rad was  lifting  me  out  of  bed,  and  Father  Dan,  who  had  just 
thrown  open  the  window,  was  saying  in  a  tremulous  Toice: 

"Your  dear  mother  has  gone  to  God." 

I  began  to  cry,  but  he  checked  me  and  said : 

"Don't  call  her  back.  She's  on  her  way  to  God's  beautiful 
Paradise  after  all  her  suffering.  Let  her  go ! " 

So  I  lost  her,  my  mother,  my  saint,  my  angel. 

It  was  Easter  Eve,  and  the  church  bells  were  ringing  the 
Gloria. 

EIGHTEENTH  CHAPTER 

AFTER  my  mother's  death  there  was  no  place  left  for  me  in 
my  father's  house. 

Betsy  Beauty  (who  was  now  called  Miss  Betsy  and  gave 
herself  more  than  ever  the  airs  of  the  daughter  of  the  family) 
occupied  half  her  days  with  the  governess  who  had  been 
engaged  to  teach  her,  and  the  other  half  in  driving,  dressed  in 
beautiful  clothes,  to  the  houses  of  the  gentry  round  about. 

Nessy  MacLeod,  called  the  young  mistress,  had  become  my 


74  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

father's  secretary,  and  spent  most  of  her  time  in  his  private 
room,  a  privilege  which  enlarged  her  pride  without  improving 
her  manners. 

Martin  Conrad  I  did  not  see,  for  in  reward  for  some  success 
at  school  the  doctor  had  allowed  him  to  spend  his  Easter 
holidays  in  London  in  order  to  look  at  Nansen's  ship,  the 
Pram,  which  had  just  then  arrived  in  the  Thames. 

Hence  it  happened  that  though  home  made  a  certain  tug  at 
me,  with  its  familiar  sights  and  sounds,  and  more  than  once  I 
turned  with  timid  steps  towards  my  father's  busy  room, 
intending  to  say,  "Please,  father,  don't  send  me  back  to 
school,'*  I  made  no  demur  when,  six  or  seven  days  after  the 
funeral,  Aunt  Bridget  began  to  prepare  for  my  departure. 

"There's  odds  of  women,"  said  Tommy  the  Mate,  when  I 
went  into  the  garden  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  "They're  like 
sheep 's  broth,  is  women.  If  there 's  a  head  and  a  heart  in  them 
they're  good,  and  if  there  isn't  you  might  as  well  be  supping 
hot  water.  Our  Big  Woman  is  hot  water — but  she'll  die 
for  all." 

Within  a  fortnight  I  was  back  at  the  Convent,  and  there 
the  Reverend  Mother  atoned  to  me  for  every  neglect. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  back  to  me,"  she  said,  and  from 
that  hour  onward  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  up  to  me 
for  the  mother  I  had  lost. 

I  became  deeply  devoted  to  her.  As  a  consequence  her 
spirit  became  my  spirit,  and,  little  by  little,  the  religious  side 
of  the  life  of  the  Convent  took  complete  possession  of  me. 

At  first  I  loved  the  church  and  its  services  because  the 
Reverend  Mother  loved  them,  and  perhaps  also  for  the  sake  of 
the  music,  the  incense,  the  flowers  and  the  lights  on  the  altar ; 
but  after  I  had  taken  my  communion,  the  mysteries  of  our 
religion  took  hold  of  me — the  Confessional  with  its  sense  of 
cleansing  and  the  unutterable  sweetness  of  the  Mass. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  this  religious 
side  of  my  mind.  My  father  never  sent  for  me,  and  as  often 
as  the  holidays  came  round  the  Reverend  Mother  took  me  with 
her  to  her  country  home  at  Nemi. 

That  was  a  beautiful  place — a  sweet  white  cottage,  some 
twenty  kilometres  from  Rome,  at  the  foot  of  Monte  Cavo,  in 
the  middle  of  the  remains  of  a  mediaeval  village  which  con- 
tained a  castle  and  a  monastery,  and  had  a  little  blue  lake 
lying  like  an  emerald  among  the  green  and  red  of  the  grass 
and  poppies  in  the  valley  below. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  75 

In  the  hot  months  of  summer  the  place  was  like  a  Paradise 
to  me,  with  its  roses  growing  wild  by  the  wayside;  its  green 
lizards  running  on  the  rocks;  its  goats;  its  sheep;  its  vine- 
yards; its  brown-faced  boys  in  velvet,  and  its  gleesome  girls 
in  smart  red  petticoats  and  gorgeous  outside  stays ;  its  shrines 
and  its  blazing  sunsets,  which  seemed  to  girdle  the  heavens 
with  quivering  bands  of  purple  and  gold. 

Years  went  by  without  my  being  aware  of  their  going,  for 
after  a  while  I  became  entirely  happy. 

I  heard  frequently  from  home.  Occasionally  it  was  from 
Betsy  Beauty,  who  had  not  much  to  say  beyond  stories  of 
balls  at  Government  House,  where  she  had  danced  with  the 
young  Lord  Raa,  and  of  hunts  at  which  she  had  ridden  with 
him.  More  rarely  it  was  from  Aunt  Bridget,  who  usually 
began  by  complaining  of  the  ever-increasing  cost  of  my  con- 
vent clothes  and  ended  with  accounts  of  her  daughter's  last 
new  costume  and  how  well  she  looked  in  it. 

Prom  Xessy  MacLeod  and  my  father  I  never  heard  at  all, 
but  Father  Dan  was  my  constant  correspondent  and  he  told 
me  everything. 

First  of  my  father  himself — that  he  had  carried  out  many 
of  his  great  enterprises,  his  marine  works,  electric  railways, 
drinking  and  dancing  palaces,  which  had  brought  tens  of 
thousands  of  visitors  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds  to 
Elian,  though  the  good  Father  doubted  the  advantage  of  such 
innovations  and  lamented  the  decline  of  piety  which  had 
followed  on  the  lust  for  wealth. 

Next  of  Aunt  Bridget — that  she  was  bringing  up  her 
daughter  in  the  ways  of  worldly  vanity  and  cherishing  a 
serpent  in  her  bosom  (meaning  Nessy  MacLeod)  who  would 
poison  her  heart  some  day. 

Next,  of  Tommy  the  Mate — that  he  sent  his  "best  respec's" 
to  the  "lil-missy"  but  thought  she  was  well  out  of  the  way 
of  the  Big  Woman  who  ' '  was  getting  that  highty-tighty ' '  that 
"you  couldn't  say  Tom  to  a  cat  before  her  but  she  was  agate 
of  you  to  make  it  Thomas. ' ' 

Then  of  Martin  Conrad — that  he  was  at  college  "studying 
for  a  doctor, ' '  but  his  heart  was  still  at  the  North  Pole  and  he 
was  "like  a  sea-gull  in  the  nest  of  a  wood  pigeon,"  always 
longing  to  be  out  on  the  wild  waves. 

Finally  of  the  young  Lord  Raa — that  the  devil's  dues  must 
be  in  the  man,  for  after  being  "sent  down"  from  Oxford 
he  had  wasted  his  substance  in  riotous  living  in  London, 


76  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

and  his  guardian  had  been  heard  to  say  he  must  many  a 
rich  wife  soon  or  his  estates  would  go  to  the  hammer. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  the  news  that  reached  me  over 
a  period  of  six  years.  Yet  welcome  as  were  Father  Dan's 
letters  the  life  they  described  seemed  less  and  less  important 
to  me  as  time  went  on,  for  the  outer  world  was  slipping  away 
from  me  altogether  and  I  was  becoming  more  and  more 
immersed  in  my  spiritual  exercises. 

I  spent  much  of  my  time  reading  religious  books — the  life 
of  Saint  Teresa,  the  meditations  of  Saint  Francis  of  Sales, 
and,  above  all,  the  letters  and  prayers  of  our  Blessed  Margaret 
Mary  Alacoque,  whose  love  of  the  Sacred  Heart  was  like  a 
flaming  torch  to  my  excited  spirit. 

The  soul  of  Rome,  too,  seemed  to  enter  into  my  soul — not 
the  new  Rome,  for  of  that  I  knew  nothing,  but  the  old  Rome, 
the  holy  city,  that  could  speak  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
within  the  walls  of  my  convent-school,  with  its  bells  of  the 
Dominican  and  Franciscan  monasteries  on  either  side,  its 
stories  of  miracles  performed  on  the  sick  and  dying  by  the 
various  shrines  of  the  Madonna,  its  accounts  of  the  vast  multi- 
tudes of  the  faithful  who  came  from  all  ends  of  the  earth 
to  the  ceremonials  at  St.  Peter's,  and,  above  all,  its  sense  of 
the  immediate  presence  of  the  Pope,  half  a  mile  away,  the 
Vicar  and  mouthpiece  of  God  Himself. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  I  wished  to  become  a  nun.  I  said 
nothing  of  my  desire  to  anybody,  not  even  to  the  Reverend 
Mother,  but  day  by  day  my  resolution  grew. 

Perhaps  it  was  natural  that  the  orphaned  and  homeless  girl 
should  plunge  with  all  this  passion  into  the  aurora  of  a  new 
spiritual  life ;  but  when  I  think  how  my  nature  was  made  for 
love,  human  love,  the  love  of  husband  and  children,  I  cannot 
but  wonder  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart  whether  my  mother  in 
heaven,  who,  while  she  was  on  earth,  had  fought  so  hard  with 
my  father  for  the  body  of  her  child,  was  now  fighting  with  him 
for  her  soul. 

I  was  just  eighteen  years  of  age  when  my  desire  to  become 
a  nun  reached  its  highest  point,  and  then  received  its  final 
overthrow. 

Mildred  Bankes,  who  had  returned  to  Rome,  and  was  living 
as  a  novice  with  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  was  about  to 
make  her  vows,  and  the  Reverend  Mother  took  me  to  see  the 
ceremony. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  effect  of  it.  The  sweet  summer 
morning,  tingling  with  snow-white  sunshine,  the  little  white 


MY  GIRLHOOD  77 

chapel  in  the  garden  of  the  Convent,  covered  with  flowers, 
the  altar  with  its  lighted  tapers,  the  friends  from  without  clad 
in  gay  costumes  as  for  a  festival,  the  bishop  in  his  bright 
vestments,  and  then,  Mildred  herself,  dressed  as  a  bride  in  a 
beautiful  white  gown  with  a  long  white  veil  and  attended  by 
other  novices  as  bridesmaids. 

It  was  just  like  a  marriage  to  look  upon,  except  for  the 
absence  of  a  visible  bridegroom,  the  invisible  one  being  Christ. 
And  the  taking  of  the  vows  was  like  a  marriage  service  too — 
only  more  solemn  and  sacred  and  touching — the  bride  receiv- 
ing the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  promising  to  serve  and  worship 
her  celestial  lover  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse, 
for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  as  long  as  life 
should  last  and  through  the  eternity  that  was  to  follow  it. 

I  cried  all  through  the  ceremony  for  sheer  joy  of  its  loveli- 
ness ;  and  when  it  was  over  and  we  went  into  the  refectory,  and 
Mildred  told  me  she  was  returning  to  England  to  work  among 
the  fallen  girls  of  London,  I  vowed  in  my  heart,  though  I 
hardly  understood  what  she  was  going  to  do,  that  I  would 
follow  her  example. 

It  was  something  of  a  jar  to  go  back  into  the  streets,  so  full 
of  noise  and  bustle ;  and  all  the  way  home  with  the  Reverend 
Mother  I  was  forming  the  resolution  of  telling  her  that  very 
night  that  I  meant  to  be  a  nun,  for,  stirred  to  the  depths  of  my 
soul  by  what  I  had  seen  and  remembering  what  my  poor 
mother  had  wished  for  me,  I  determined  that  no  other  life 
would  I  live  under  any  circumstances. 

Then  came  the  shock. 

As  we  drew  up  at  our  door  a  postman  was  delivering  letters. 
One  of  them  was  for  the  Reverend  Mother  and  I  saw  in  a 
moment  that  it  was  in  my  father's  handwriting.  She  read  it 
in  silence,  and  in  silence  she  handed  it  to  me.  It  ran : 

"Madam, 

"I  have  come  to  Rome  to  take  back  my  daughter.  I  believe 
her  education  will  now  be  finished,  and  I  reckon  the  time  has 
arrived  to  prepare  her  for  the  change  in  life  that  is  before  her. 

"The  Bishop  of  our  diocese  has  come  with  me,  and  we  pro- 
pose to  pay  our  respects  to  you  at  ten  o'clock  prompt  to- 
morrow morning. 

"Tours,  Madam, 

"DANIEL  O'NEILL." 


78  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 


NINETEENTH  CHAPTER 

I  SAW,  as  by  a  flash  of  light,  what  was  before  me,  and  my 
whole  soul  rose  in  rebellion  against  it.  That  my  father  after 
all  the  years  during  which  he  had  neglected  me,  should  come  to 
me  now,  when  my  plans  were  formed,  and  change  the  whole 
current  of  my  life,  was  an  outrage — an  iniquity.  It  might  be 
his  right — his  natural  right — but  if  so  his  natural  right  was  a 
spiritual  wrong — and  I  would  resist  it — to  my  last  breath  and 
my  last  hour  I  would  resist  it. 

Such  were  the  brave  thoughts  with  which  I  passed  that  night, 
but  at  ten  o  'clock  next  morning,  when  I  was  summoned  to  meet 
my  father  himself,  it  was  on  trembling  limbs  and  with  a  quiver- 
ing heart  that  I  went  down  to  the  Reverend  Mother's  room. 

Except  that  his  hair  was  whiter  than  before  my  father  was 
not  much  changed.  He  rose  as  I  entered,  saying,  "Here  she 
is  herself,"  and  when  I  went  up  to  him  he  put  his  hands  on 
my  shoulders  and  looked  into  my  face. 

"Quite  a  little  Italian  woman  grown!  Like  your  mother 
though,"  he  said,  and  then  speaking  over  my  head  to  the 
Bishop,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  he  added : 

"Guess  this  will  do,  Bishop,  eh?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  the  Bishop. 

I  was  colouring  in  confusion  at  the  continued  scrutiny,  with 
a  feeling  of  being  looked  over  for  some  unexplained  purpose, 
when  the  Reverend  Mother  called  me,  and  turning  to  go  to 
her  I  saw,  by  the  look  of  pain  on  her  face  that  she,  too,  had 
been  hurt  by  it. 

She  put  me  to  sit  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of  her  chair,  and 
taking  my  right  hand  she  laid  it  in  her  lap  and  held  it  there 
during  the  whole  of  the  interview. 

The  Bishop,  whom  I  had  never  seen  before,  was  the  first  to 
speak.  He  was  a  type  of  the  fashionable  ecclesiastic,  suave, 
smiling,  faultlessly  dressed  in  silk  soutane  and  silver 
buckled  shoes,  and  wearing  a  heavy  gold  chain  with  a 
jewelled  cross. 

"Reverend  Mother,"  he  said,  "you  would  gather  from  Mr. 
O'Neill's  letter  that  he  wishes  to  remove  his  daughter  imme- 
diately— I  presume  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  his  doing 
so?" 

The  Reverend  Mother  did  not  speak,  but  I  think  she  must 
have  bent  her  head. 

"Naturally,"  said  the  Bishop,  "there  will  be  a  certain  delay 


MY  GIRLHOOD  79 

while  suitable  clothes  are  being  made  for  her,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  give  Mr.  O'Neill  your  help  in  these  prepara- 
tions. ' ' 

My  head  was  down,  and  I  did  not  see  if  the  Reverend  Mother 
bowed  again.  But  the  two  gentlemen,  apparently  satisfied 
with  her  silence,  began  to  talk  of  the  best  date  for  my  removal, 
and  just  when  I  was  quivering  with  fear  that  without  a  word 
of  protest  I  was  to  be  taken  away,  the  Reverend  Mother  said : 

"Monsignor!" 

"Reverend  Mother!" 

"You  are  aware  that  this  child" — here  she  patted  my 
trembling  hand — "has  been  with  me  for  ten  years?" 

"I  am  given  to  understand  so." 

"And  that  during  that  time  she  has  only  once  been  home?" 

"I  was  not  aware — but  no  doubt  it  is  as  you  say." 

"In  short,  that  during  the  greater  part  of  her  life  she  has 
been  left  to  my  undivided  care?" 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  her,  very,  and  I'm  sure  her 
family  are  extremely  grateful." 

"In  that  case,  Monsignor,  doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  I 
am  entitled  to  know  why  she  is  being  so  suddenly  taken  away 
from  me,  and  what  is  the  change  in  life  which  Mr.  O'Neill 
referred  to  in  his  letter  ? ' ' 

The  smile  which  had  been  playing  upon  the  Bishop's  face 
was  smitten  away  from  it  by  that  question,  and  he  looked 
anxiously  across  at  my  father. 

"Tell  her,"  said  my  father,  and  then,  while  my  heart 
thumped  in  my  bosom  and  the  Reverend  Mother  stroked  my 
hand  to  compose  me,  the  Bishop  gave  a  brief  explanation. 

The  time  had  not  come  when  it  would  be  prudent  to  be  more 
definite,  but  he  might  say  that  Mr.  O'Neill  was  trying  to 
arrange  a  happy  and  enviable  future  for  his  daughter,  and 
therefore  he  wished  her  to  return  home  to  prepare  for  it. 

"Does  that  mean  marriage?"  said  the  Reverend  Mother. 

"It  may  be  so.    I  am  not  quite  prepared  to     .     .     ." 

"And  that  a  husband  has  already  been  found  for  her?" 

"That  too  perhaps.    I  will  not  say     .     .     ." 

"Monsignor,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  sitting  up  with 
dignity,  "is  that  fair?" 

"Fair?" 

"Is  it  fair  that  after  ten  years  in  which  her  father  has 
done  nothing  for  her,  he  should  determine  what  her  life  is  to 
be,  without  regard  to  her  wish  and  will?" 


80  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  saw  that  the  Bishop  looked  aghast. 

"Reverend  Mother,  you  surprise  me,"  he  said.  "Since 
when  has  a  father  ceased  to  be  the  natural  guardian  of  his 
child?  Has  he  not  been  so  since  the  beginning  of  the  •world? 
Doesn  't  the  Church  itself  build  its  laws  on  that  foundation  ? ' ' 

"Does  it?"  said  the  Reverend  Mother  shortly.  And  then 
(I  could  feel  her  hand  trembling  as  she  spoke) :  "Some  of  its 
servants  do,  I  know.  But  when  did  the  Church  say  that  any- 
body— no  matter  who — a  father  or  anybody  else — should 
take  the  soul  of  another,  and  control  it  and  govern  it,  and 
put  it  in  prison?  .  .  ." 

"My  good  lady,"  said  the  Bishop,  "would  you  call  it  put- 
ting the  girl  in  prison  to  marry  her  into  an  illustrious  family, 
to  give  her  an  historic  name,  to  surround  her  with  the  dignity 
and  distinction  .  .  ." 

"Bishop,"  said  my  father,  raising  his  hand,  "I  guess  it's 
my  right  to  butt  in  here,  isn  't  it  ? " 

I  saw  that  my  father's  face  had  been  darkening  while  the 
Reverend  Mother  spoke,  and  now,  rolling  his  heavy  body  in 
his  chair  so  as  to  face  her,  he  said : 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  when  you  say  I've  done  nothing 
for  my  gel  here  I  suppose  you'll  allow  I've  kept  her  and 
educated  her?" 

"You've  kept  and  educated  your  dogs  and  horses,  also,  I 
dare  say,  but  do  you  claim  the  same  rights  over  a  human 
being?" 

"I  do,  ma'am — I  think  I  do.  And  when  the  human  being 
happens  to  be  my  own  daughter  I  don't  allow  that  anybody 
else  has  anything  to  say." 

"If  her  mother  were  alive  would  she  have  nothing  to  say?" 

I  thought  my  father  winced  at  that  word,  but  he  answered : 

"Her  mother  would  agree  to  anything  I  thought  best." 

' '  Her  mother,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  was  a  most  unselfish,  most 
submissive,  most  unhappy  woman,"  said  the  Reverend 
Mother. 

My  father  glanced  quickly  at  me  and  then,  after  a  moment, 
he  said : 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,  much  obliged.  But  as  I'm 
not  a  man  to  throw  words  away  I'll  ask  you  to  tell  me  what 
all  this  means.  Does  it  mean  that  you  've  made  plans  of  your 
own  for  my  daughter  without  consulting  me  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  perhaps  it  means  that  the  gel  herself    .    .     ." 


MY  GIRLHOOD  81 

"That  may  be  so  or  not — I  cannot  say.  But  when  you  sent 
your  daughter  to  a  convent-school  .  .  ." 

' '  Wrong,  ma  'am,  wrong  for  once.  It  was  my  wife  'a  sister — 
who  thinks  the  gel  disobedient  and  rebellious  and  unruly  ..." 

"Then  your  wife's  sister  is  either  a  very  stupid  or  a  very 
bad-hearted  woman." 

"Ma'am?" 

"I  have  known  your  daughter  longer  than  she  has,  and 
there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  what  she  says." 

It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  not  to  fall  on  the  Reverend 
Mother 's  neck,  but  I  clung  to  her  hand  with  a  convulsive  grasp. 

"May  be  so,  ma'am,  may  be  no,"  said  my  father.  "But 
when  you  talk  about  my  sending  my  daughter  to  a  convent- 
school  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  've  been  so  busy  with  my 
business  .  .  ." 

"That  you  haven't  had  time  to  take  care  of  the  most 
precious  thing  God  gave  you." 

"Ma'am,"  said  my  father,  rising  to  his  feet,  "may  I  ask 
what  right  you  have  to  speak  to  me  as  if  .  .  ." 

"The  right  of  one  who  for  ten  years  has  been  a  mother  to 
your  motherless  child,  sir,  while  you  have  neglected  and 
forgotten  her." 

At  that  my  father,  whose  bushy  eyebrows  were  heavily 
contracted,  turned  to  the  Bishop. 

' '  Bishop, ' '  he  said, ' '  is  this  what  I  've  been  paying  my  money 
for?  Ten  years'  fees,  and  middling  high  ones  too,  I'm 
thinking?" 

And  then  the  Bishop,  apparently  hoping  to  make  peace, 
said  suavely: 

"But  aren't  we  crossing  the  river  before  we  reach  the 
bridge  ?  The  girl  herself  may  have  no  such  objections.  .  .  . 
Have  you?"  he  asked,  turning  to  me. 

I  was  trembling  more  than  ever  now,  and  at  first  I  could 
not  reply. 

"Don't  you  wish  to  go  back  home  with  your  father?" 

"No,  sir,"  I  answered. 

"And  why  not,  please?" 

"Because  my  father's  home  is  no  home  to  me — because  my 
aunt  has  always  been  unkind  to  me,  and  because  my  father 
has  never  cared  for  me  or  protected  me,  and  because  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  else?" 

"Because    .    .    .    because  I  wish  to  become  a  nun." 

p 


82  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  my  father  broke 
into  bitter  laughter. 

"So  that's  it,  is  itT  I  thought  as  much.  You  want  to  go 
into  partnership  with  the  Mother  in  the  nun  business,  eh?" 

"My  mother  wished  me  to  become  a  nun,  and  I  wish  it 
myself,  sir." 

"Your  mother  was  a  baby — that's  what  she  was." 

"My  mother  was  an  angel,  sir,"  I  said,  bridling  up,  "and 
when  she  was  dying  she  hoped  I  should  become  a  nun,  and  I 
can  never  become  anything  else  under  any  circumstance." 

"Bah!"  said  my  father,  with  a  contemptuous  lift  of  the 
hand,  and  then  turning  to  the  Reverend  Mother  he  said: 

"Hark  here,  ma'am.  There's  an  easy  way  and  a  hard  way 
in  most  everything.  I  take  the  easy  way  first,  and  if  it  won 't 
work  I  take  the  hard  way  next,  and  then  it's  stiff  pulling  for 
the  people  who  pull  against  me.  I  came  to  Rome  to  take  my 
daughter  home.  I  don't  feel  called  upon  to  explain  why  I 
want  to  take  her  home,  or  what  I  'm  going  to  do  with  her  when 
I  get  her  there.  I  believe  I  've  got  the  rights  of  a  father  to  do 
what  I  mean  to  do,  and  that  it  will  be  an  ugly  business  for 
anybody  who  aids  and  abets  my  daughter  in  resisting  her 
father's  will.  So  111  leave  her  here  a  week  longer,  and  when 
I  come  back,  111  expect  her  to  be  ready  and  waiting  and 
willing — ready  and  waiting  and  willing,  mind  you — to  go 
along  with  me." 

After  saying  this  my  father  faced  about  and  with  his  heavy 
flat  step  went  out  of  the  room,  whereupon  the  Bishop  bowed 
to  the  Reverend  Mother  and  followed  him. 

My  heart  was  by  this  time  in  fierce  rebellion — all  that  the 
pacifying  life  of  the  convent-school  had  done  for  me  in  ten 
years  being  suddenly  swept  away — and  I  cried : 

"I  won't  do  it!    I  won't  do  it!" 

But  I  had  seen  that  the  Reverend  Mother's  face  had 
suddenly  become  very  white  while  my  father  spoke  to  her  at 
the  end  and  now  she  said,  in  a  timid,  almost  frightened 
tone: 

"Mary,  well  go  out  to  Nemi  to-day.  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you." 

TWENTIETH  CHAPTER 

IN  the  late  afternoon  of  the  same  day  we  were  sitting  together 
for  the  last  time  on  the  terrace  of  the  Reverend  Mother's 
villa. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  83 

It  was  a  peaceful  evening,  a  sweet  and  holy  time.  Not  a 
leaf  was  stirring,  not  a  breath  of  wind  was  in  the  air;  but  the 
voice  of  a  young  boy,  singing  a  love-song,  came  np  from  some- 
where among  the  rocky  ledges  of  the  vineyards  below,  and 
while  the  bell  of  the  monastic  church  behind  us  was  ringing  the 
Ave  Maria,  the  far-off  bell  of  the  convent  church  at  Gonzano 
was  answering  from  the  other  side  of  the  lake — like  angels 
calling*  to  each  other  from  long  distances  in  the  sky. 

"Mary,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  "I  want  to  tell  yon  a 
story.  It  is  the  story  of  my  own  life — mine  and  my  sister's 
and  my  father's." 

I  was  sitting  by  her  side  and  she  was  holding  my  hand  in 
her  lap,  and  patting  it,  as  she  had  done  during  the  interview 
of  the  morning. 

"They  say  the  reason  so  few  women  become  nuns  is  that  a 
woman  is  too  attached  to  her  home  to  enter  the  holy  life  until 
she  has  suffered  shipwreck  in  the  world.  That  may  be  so 
with  most  women.  It  was  not  so  with  me. 

"My  father  was  what  is  called  a  self-made  man.  But  his 
fortune  did  not  content  him.  He  wanted  to  found  a  family. 
If  he  had  had  a  son  this  might  have  been  easy.  Having  only 
two  daughters,  he  saw  no  way  bnt  that  of  marrying  one  of  us 
into  the  Italian  nobility. 

"My  sister  was  the  first  to  disappoint  him.  She  fell  in  love 
with  a  young  Roman  musician.  The  first  time  the  young  man 
asked  for  my  sister  he  was  contemptuously  refused;  the 
second  time  he  was  insulted ;  the  third  time  he  was  flung  out 
of  the  house.  His  nature  was  headstrong  and  passionate,  and 
so  was  my  father's.  If  either  had  been  different  the  result 
might  not  have  been  the  same.  Yet  who  knows?  "Who  can 
say?*' 

The  Reverend  Mother  paused  for  a  moment  The  boy's 
voice  in  the  vineyard  was  going  on. 

"To  remove  my  sister  from  the  scene  of  temptation  my 
father  took  her  from  Rome  to  our  villa  in  the  hills  above 
Albano.  But  the  young  musician  followed  her.  Since  my 
father  would  not  permit  him  to  marry  her  he  was  determined 
that  she  should  fly  with  him,  and  when  she  hesitated  to  do  so  he 
threatened  her.  If  she  did  not  meet  him  at  a  certain  hour  on  a 
certain  night  my  father  would  be  dead  in  the  morning." 

The  Keverend  Mother  paused  again.  The  boy's  voice  had 
ceased ;  the  daylight  was  dying  out. 

"My  sister  could  not  bring  herself  to  sacrifice  either  her 


84  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

father  or  her  lover.  Hence  she  saw  only  one  way  left — to 
sacrifice  herself." 

"Herself?" 

The  Reverend  Mother  patted  my  hand.  "Isn't  that  what 
women  in  tragic  circumstances  are  always  doing?"  she  said. 

"By  some  excuse — I  don't  know  what — she  persuaded  our 
father  to  change  rooms  with  her  that  night — he  going  upstairs 
to  her  bedroom  in  the  tower,  and  she  to  his  on  the  ground  floor 
at  the  back,  opening  on  to  the  garden  and  the  pine  forest 
that  goes  up  the  hill. 

"What  happened  after  that  nobody  ever  knew  exactly.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night  the  servants  heard  two  pistol  shots,  and 
next  morning  my  sister  was  found  dead — shot  to  the  heart 
through  an  open  window  as  she  lay  in  my  father's  bed. 

"The  authorities  tried  in  vain  to  trace  the  criminal.  Only 
one  person  had  any  idea  of  his  identity.  That  was  my  father, 
and  in  his  fierce  anger  he  asked  himself  what  he  ought  to  do 
in  order  to  punish  the  man  who  had  killed  his  daughter. 

"Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  On  the  day  before  the 
funeral  the  young  musician  walked  into  my  father's  room. 
His  face  was  white  and  wasted,  and  his  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen.  He  had  come  to  ask  if  he  might  be  allowed  to  be  one 
of  those  to  carry  the  coffin.  My  father  consented.  'I'll  leave 
him  alone,'  he  thought.  'The  man  is  punished  enough.' 

"All  the  people  of  Albano  came  to  the  funeral  and  there 
was  not  a  dry  eye  as  the  cortege  passed  from  our  chapel  to  the 
grave.  Everybody  knew  the  story  of  my  sister's  hopeless  love, 
but  only  two  in  the  world  knew  the  secret  of  her  tragic  death — 
her  young  lover,  who  was  sobbing  aloud  as  he  staggered  along 
with  her  body  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  old  father,  who  was 
walking  bareheaded  and  in  silence,  behind  him. ' ' 

My  heart  was  beating  audibly  and  the  Reverend  Mother 
stroked  my  hand  to  compose  me — perhaps  to  compose  herself 
also.  It  was  now  quite  dark,  the  stars  were  coming  out,  and 
the  bells  of  the  two  monasteries  on  opposite  sides  of  the  lake 
were  ringing  the  first  hour  of  night. 

"That's  my  sister's  story,  Mary,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother 
after  a  while,  "and  the  moral  of  my  own  is  the  same,  though 
the  incidents  are  different. 

"I  was  now  my  father's  only  child  and  all  his  remaining 
hopes  centred  in  me.  So  he  set  himself  to  find  a  husband 
for  me  before  the  time  came  when  I  should  form  an  attachment 


MY  GIRLHOOD  85 

for  myself.  His  choice  fell  on  a  middle-aged  Roman  noble  of 
distinguished  but  impoverished  family. 

' '  '  He  has  a  great  name ;  you  will  have  a  great  fortune — 
what  more  do  you  want?'  said  my  father. 

""We  were  back  in  Rome  by  this  time,  and  there — at  school 
or  elsewhere — I  had  formed  the  conviction  that  a  girl  must 
passionately  love  the  man  she  marries,  and  I  did  not  love 
the  Roman  noble.  I  had  also  been  led  to  believe  that  a  girl 
should  be  the  first  and  only  passion  of  the  man  who  marries 
her,  and,  young  as  I  was,  I  knew  that  my  middle-aged  lover 
had  had  other  domestic  relations. 

"Consequently  I  demurred,  but  my  father  threatened  and 
stormed,  and  then,  remembering  my  sister's  fate,  I  pretended 
to  agree,  and  I  was  formally  engaged. 

"I  never  meant  to  keep  my  promise,  and  I  began  to  think 
out  schemes  by  which  to  escape  from  it.  Only  one  way 
seemed  open  to  me  then,  and  cherishing  the  thought  of  it  in 
secret,  I  waited  and  watched  and  made  preparations  for 
carrying  out  my  purpose. 

"At  length  the  moment  came  to  me.  It  was  mid-Lent,  and 
a  masked  ball  was  given  by  my  fiance's  friends  in  one  of  the 
old  Roman  palaces.  I  can  see  it  still — the  great  hall,  ablaze 
with  glowing  frescoes,  beautiful  Venetian  candelabras,  gilded 
furniture,  red  and  yellow  damask  and  velvet,  and  then  the 
throng  of  handsome  men  in  many  uniforms  and  beautiful 
women  with  rows  of  pearls  falling  from  their  naked  throats. 

"I  had  dressed  myself  as  a  Bacchante  in  a  white  tunic 
embroidered  in  gold,  with  bracelets  on  my  bare  arms,  a  tiger- 
skin  band  over  my  forehead,  and  a  cluster  of  grapes  in 
my  hair. 

"I  danced  every  dance,  I  remember,  most  of  them  with  my 
middle-aged  lover,  and  I  suppose  no  one  seemed  so  gay  and 
happy  and  heedless.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  re- 
turned home  in  my  father's  carriage.  At  six  I  had  entered 
a  convent. 

"Nobody  in  the  outer  world  ever  knew  what  had  become  of 
me,  and  neither  did  I  know  what  happened  at  home  after  I 
left  it.  The  rule  of  the  convent  was  very  strict.  Sometimes, 
after  morning  prayers,  the  Superior  would  say,  'The  mother 
of  one  of  you  is  dead — pray  for  her  soul, '  and  that  was  all  we 
ever  heard  of  the  world  outside. 

"But  nature  is  a  mighty  thing,  my  child,  and  after  five 
years  I  became  restless  and  unhappy.  I  began  to  have  mis- 


86  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

givings  about  my  vocation,  but  the  Mother,  who  was  wise 
and  human,  saw  what  was  going  on  in  my  heart.  'You  are 
thinking  about  your  father,'  she  said,  'that  he  is  growing  old, 
and  needing  a  daughter  to  take  care  of  him.  Go  out,  and 
nurse  him,  and  then  come  back  to  your  cell  and  pray.' 

"I  went,  but  when  I  reached  my  father's  house  a  great 
shock  awaited  me.  A  strange  man  was  in  the  porter's  lodge, 
and  our  beautiful  palace  was  let  out  in  apartments.  My  father 
was  dead — three  years  dead  and  buried.  After  my  disap- 
pearance he  had  shut  himself  up  in  his  shame  and  grief,  for, 
little  as  I  had  suspected  it  and  hard  and  cruel  as  I  had  thought 
him,  he  had  really  and  truly  loved  me.  During  his  last  days 
his  mind  had  failed  him  and  he  had  given  away  all  his  fortune 
— scattered  it,  no  one  knew  how,  as  something  that  was  quite 
useless — and  then  he  died,  alone  and  broken-hearted." 

That  was  the  end  of  the  Reverend  Mother 's  narrative.  She 
did  not  try  to  explain  or  justify  or  condemn  her  own  or  her 
sister's  conduct,  neither  did  she  attempt  to  apply  the  moral 
of  her  story  to  my  own  circumstances.  She  left  me  to  do 
that  for  myself. 

I  had  been  spell-bound  while  she  spoke,  creeping  closer  and 
closer  to  her  until  my  head  was  on  her  breast. 

For  some  time  longer  we  sat  like  this  in  the  soft  Italian 
night,  while  the  fire-flies  came  out  in  clouds  among  the  unseen 
flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  dark  air  seemed  to  be  alive  with 
sparks  of  light. 

When  the  time  came  to  go  to  bed  the  Reverend  Mother  took 
me  to  my  room,  and  after  some  cheerful  words  she  left  me. 
But  hardly  had  I  lain  down,  shaken  to  the  heart's  core  by 
what  I  had  heard,  and  telling  myself  that  the  obedience  of  a 
daughter  to  her  father,  whatever  he  might  demand  of  her,  was 
an  everlasting  and  irreversible  duty,  imposed  by  no  human 
law-giver,  and  that  marriage  was  a  necessity,  which  was  forced 
upon  most  women  by  a  mysterious  and  unyielding  law  of 
God,  when  the  door  opened  and  the  Reverend  Mother,  with  a 
lamp  in  her  hand,  came  in  again. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  am  leaving 
the  Sacred  Heart.  The  Sisters  of  my  old  convent  have  asked 
me  to  go  back  as  Superior.  I  have  obtained  permission  to  do 
so  and  am  going  shortly,  so  that  in  any  case  we  should  have 
been  parted  soon.  It  is  the  Convent  of  .  .  ." 

Here  she  gave  me  the  name  of  a  private  society  of  cloistered 
nuns  in  the  heart  of  Rome. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  87 

"I  hope  you  will  write  to  me  as  often  as  possible,  and  come 
to  see  me  whenever  you  can.  .  .  .  And  if  it  should  ever 
occur  that  .  .  .  but  no,  I  will  not  think  of  that.  Marriage 
is  a  sacred  tie,  too,  and  under  proper  conditions  God  blesses 
and  hallows  it." 

With  that  she  left  me  in  the  darkness.  The  church  bell  was 
ringing,  the  monks  of  the  Passionist  monastery  were  getting 
up  for  their  midnight  offices. 

TWENTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

A  WEEK  later  I  was  living  with -my  father  in  the  Hotel  Europa 
on  the  edge  of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 

He  was  kinder  to  me  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  but  he 
did  not  tell  me  what  the  plans  were  which  he  had  formed  for 
my  future,  and  I  was  left  to  discover  them  for  myself. 

Our  apartment  was  constantly  visited  by  ecclesiastics — 
Monsignori,  Archbishops,  even  one  of  the  Cardinals  of  the 
Propaganda,  brought  there  by  Bishop  Walsh  (the  Bishop  of 
our  own  diocese),  and  I  could  not  help  but  hear  portions 
of  their  conversation. 

' '  It  will  be  difficult,  extremely  difficult, ' '  the  Cardinal  would 
say.  "Such  marriages  are  not  encouraged  by  the  Church, 
which  holds  that  they  are  usually  attended  by  the  worst  conse- 
quences to  both  wife  and  husband.  Still — under  the  excep- 
tional circumstances — that  the  bridegroom 's  family  was  Catho- 
lic before  it  was  Protestant — it  is  possible,  just  possible  ..." 

"Cardinal,"  my  father  would  answer,  while  his  strong  face 
was  darkening,  "excuse  me,  sir,  but  I'm  kind  of  curious  to  get 
the  hang  of  this  business.  Either  it  can  be  done  or  it  can't. 
If  it  can,  we  '11  just  sail  in  and  do  it.  But  if  it  can 't,  I  believe 
I  '11  go  home  quick  and  spend  my  money  another  way. ' ' 

Then  there  would  be  earnest  assurances  that  in  the  end 
all  would  be  right,  only  Rome  moved  slowly,  and  it  would  be 
necessary  to  have  patience  and  wait. 

My  father  waited  three  weeks,  and  meantime  he  occupied 
himself  in  seeing  the  sights  of  the  old  city. 

But  the  mighty  remains  which  are  the  luminous  light-houses 
of  the  past — the  Forum  with  the  broken  columns  of  its  dead 
centuries;  the  Coliseum  with  its  gigantic  ruins,  like  the 
desolate  crater  of  a  moon;  the  Campagna  with  its  hollow, 
crumbling  tombs  and  shattered  aqueducts, — only  vexed  and 
irritated  him. 


88  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Guess  if  I  had  my  way,"  he  said,  "I  would  just  clean  out 
this  old  stone-yard  of  monuments  to  dead  men,  and  make  it 
more  fit  for  living  ones." 

At  length  the  Bishop  came  to  say  that  the  necessary  business 
had  been  completed,  and  that  to  mark  its  satisfactory  settle- 
ment the  Pope  had  signified  his  willingness  to  receive  in 
private  audience  both  my  father  and  myself. 

This  threw  me  into  a  state  of  the  greatest  nervousness,  for 
I  had  begun  to  realise  that  my  father's  business  concerned 
myself,  so  that  when,  early  the  following  morning  (clad 
according  to  instructions,  my  father  in  evening  dress  and  I  in 
a  long  black  mantilla),  we  set  out  for  the  Vatican,  I  was  in  a 
condition  of  intense  excitement. 

What  happened  after  we  got  out  of  the  carriage  at  the 
bronze  gate  near  St.  Peter's  I  can  only  describe  from  a  vague 
and  feverish  memory.  I  remember  going  up  a  great  staircase, 
past  soldiers  in  many-coloured  coats,  into  a  vast  corridor, 
where  there  were  other  soldiers  in  other  costumes.  I  remem- 
ber going  on  and  on,  through  salon  after  salon,  each  larger 
and  more  luxurious  than  the  last,  and  occupied  by  guards 
still  more  gorgeously  dressed  than  the  guards  we  had  left 
behind.  I  remember  coming  at  length  to  a  door  at  which  a 
Chamberlain,  wearing  a  sword,  knelt  and  knocked  softly,  and 
upon  its  being  opened  announced  our  names.  And  then  I 
remember  that  after  all  this  grandeur  as  of  a  mediaeval  court 
I  found  myself  in  a  plain  room  like  a  library  with  a  simple 
white  figure  before  me,  and  ...  I  was  in  the  presence 
of  the  Holy  Father  himself. 

Can  I  ever  forget  that  moment? 

I  had  always  been  taught  in  the  Convent  to  think  of  the 
Pope  with  a  reverence  only  second  to  that  which  was  due  to 
the  Saints,  so  at  first  I  thought  I  should  faint,  and  how  I 
reached  the  Holy  Father's  feet  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know 
that  he  was  very  sweet  and  kind  to  me,  holding  out  the  delicate 
white  hand  on  which  he  wore  the  fisherman's  emerald  ring, 
and  smoothing  my  head  after  I  had  kissed  it. 

When  I  recovered  myself  sufficiently  to  look  up  I  saw  that 
he  was  an  old  man,  with  a  very  pale  and  saintly  face;  and 
when  he  spoke  it  was  in  such  a  soft  and  fatherly  voice  that  I 
loved  and  worshipped  him. 

"So  this  is  the  little  lady,"  he  said,  "who  is  to  be  the 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence  in  bringing  back  an 
erring  family  into  the  folds  of  Mother  Church." 


MY  GIRLHOOD  89 

Somebody  answered  him,  and  then  he  spoke  to  me  about 
marriage,  saying  it  was  a  holy  state,  instituted  by  the  Almighty 
under  a  natural  law  and  sanctioned  by  our  divine  Redeemer 
into  the  dignity  of  a  Sacrament,  so  that  those  who  entered  it 
might  live  together  in  peace  and  love. 

"It  is  a  spiritual  and  sacred  union,  my  child,"  he  said, 
"a  type  of  the  holy  mystery  of  Christ's  relation  to  His 
Church." 

Then  he  told  me  I  was  to  make  the  best  possible  preparation 
for  marriage  in  order  to  obtain  the  abundant  graces  of  God, 
and  to  approach  the  altar  only  after  penance  and  communion. 

"And  when  you  leave  the  church,  my  daughter,"  he  said, 
"do  not  profane  the  day  of  your  marriage  by  any  sinful 
thought  or  act,  but  remember  to  bear  yourself  as  if  Jesus 
Christ  Himself  were  with  you,  as  He  was  at  the  marriage-feast 
in  Cana  of  Galilee." 

Then  he  warned  me  that  when  I  entered  into  the  solemn 
contract  of  holy  matrimony  I  was  to  do  so  in  the  full  con- 
sciousness that  it  could  not  be  broken  but  by  death. 

"Whom  God  has  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder 
— remember  that,  too,  my  daughter." 

Finally  he  said  something  about  children — that  a  Catholic 
marrying  a  person  of  another  religion  must  not  enter  into  any 
agreement  whereby  any  of  her  children  should  be  brought  up 
in  any  other  than  the  Catholic  faith. 

After  that,  and  something  said  to  my  father  which  I  can- 
not recall,  he  gave  me  his  blessing,  in  words  so  beautiful  and  a 
voice  so  sweet  that  it  fell  on  me  like  the  soft  breeze  that  comes 
out  of  the  rising  sun  on  a  summer  morning. 

"May  the  God  of  Abraham,  the  God  of  Isaac,  and  the  God 
of  Jacob  be  with  you,  my  daughter.  May  your  marriage  be 
a  yoke  of  love  and  peace,  and  may  you  see  your  children's 
children  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation." 

Then  he  raised  me  to  my  feet,  and  at  a  touch  from  the 
Chamberlain,  I  backed  out  of  the  room. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  me  I  drew  a  deep  breath, 
feeling  as  if  I  had  come  out  of  the  Holy  of  Holies,  and  when 
I  reached  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  and  came  again  upon  the 
sight  and  sound  of  common  things — the  cabs  and  electric  cars 
— it  was  the  same  as  if  I  had  suddenly  descended  from  heaven 
to  earth. 

After  my  audience  with  the  Pope,  following  on  the  Reverend 
Mother's  story,  all  my  objections  to  marriage  had  gone,  and  I 


90  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

wished  to  tell  my  father  so,  but  an  opportunity  did  not  arise 
until  late  the  same  night  and  then  it  was  he  who  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

Being  in  good  spirits,  after  a  dinner  to  the  ecclesiastics,  he 
said,  as  soon  as  his  guests  had  gone — speaking  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  believed  he  was  doing  a  great  thing  for  me — 

"Mary,  matters  are  not  quite  settled  yet,  but  you  might 
as  well  know  right  here  what  we  're  trying  to  fix  up  for  you. ' ' 

Then  he  told  me. 

I  was  to  marry  the  young  Lord  Raa ! 

I  was  stunned.  It  was  just  as  if  the  power  of  thought  had 
been  smitten  out  of  me. 

TWENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

THAT  night,  and  during  the  greater  part  of  the  following  day, 
I  felt,  without  quite  knowing  why,  as  if  I  were  living  under 
the  dark  cloud  of  a  gathering  thunderstorm.  All  my  fear  of 
the  world,  and  my  desire  to  escape  from  it,  had  fallen  upon  me 
afresh.  Hence  it  was  not  altogether  by  the  blind  leading  of 
fate  that  half  an  hour  before  Ave  Maria  I  entered  the  church 
of  the  Convent  which  the  Reverend  Mother  had  given  me  the 
name  of. 

The  church  was  empty  when  I  pushed  past  the  leather  hang- 
ing that  covered  the  door,  but  the  sacristan  was  lighting  the 
candles  for  Benediction,  so  I  went  up  to  the  bronze  screen, 
the  Cancello,  that  divides  the  public  part  from  the  part  occu- 
pied by  the  Sisters,  and  knelt  on  the  nearest  step. 

After  a  while  the  church-bell  rang  overhead,  and  then  (the 
congregation  having  gathered  in  the  meantime)  the  nuns 
came  in  by  way  of  a  corridor  which  seemed  to  issue  out  of  the 
darkness  from  under  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  and  Child. 

They  were  all  in  white,  snow-white  from  head  to  foot,  with 
a  glimmer  of  blue  scapular  beneath  their  outer  garment,  and 
they  wore  long  thick  veils  which  entirely  concealed  their 
features  when  they  entered  but  were  raised  when  they  reached 
their  seats  and  faced  the  altar. 

Familiar  as  I  was  with  similar  scenes  this  one  moved  me  as 
I  had  never  before  been  moved — the  silent  white  figures, 
with  hands  clasped  on  their  breasts,  coming  in  one  by  one  with 
noiseless  and  unhurried  footsteps,  like  a  line  of  wraiths  from 
another  world. 

But  a  still  deeper  emotion  was  to  come  to  me. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  91 

As  the  last  of  the  nuns  entered,  the  Superior  as  I  knew 
she  would  be,  I  recognised  her  instantly.  It  was  my  own 
Keverend  Mother  herself;  and  when,  after  kneeling  to  the 
altar,  she  came  down  to  her  seat  nearest  to  the  screen,  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  place  where  I  knelt,  I  knew  by  the 
tremor  of  the  clasped  hands  which  held  the  rosary,  that  she 
had  seen  and  recognised  me. 

I  trembled  and  my  heart  thumped  against  my  breast. 

Then  the  priest  entered  and  the  Litany  began.  It  was  sung 
throughout.  Almost  the  whole  of  the  service  was  sung.  Never 
had  Benediction  seemed  so  beautiful,  so  pathetic,  so  appealing, 
so  irresistible. 

By  the  time  the  Tantum  ergo  had  been  reached  and  the 
sweet  female  voices,  over  the  soft  swell  of  the  organ,  were 
rising  to  the  vaulted  roof  in  sorrowful  reparation  for  the  sins 
of  all  sinners  in  the  world  who  did  not  pray  for  themselves, 
the  religious  life  was  calling  to  me  as  it  had  never  called  before. 

"Come  away  from  the  world,"  it  seemed  to  say.  "Obedi- 
ence to  your  heavenly  Father  cancels  all  duty  to  your  earthly 
one.  Leave  everything  you  fear  behind  you,  and  find  peace 
and  light  and  love." 

The  service  was  over,  the  nuns  had  dropped  their  veils  and 
gone  out  as  slowly  and  noiselessly  as  they  had  come  in  (the 
last  of  them  with  her  head  down)  :  the  sacristan  with  his  long 
rod  was  extinguishing  the  candles  on  the  altar ;  the  church  was 
growing  dark  and  a  lay-sister  in  black  was  rattling  a  bunch 
of  keys  at  the  door  behind  me  before  I  moved  from  my  place 
beside  the  rails. 

Then  I  awoke  as  from  a  dream,  and  looking  longingly  back 
at  the  dark  corridor  down  which  the  nuns  had  disappeared, 
I  was  turning  to  go  when  I  became  aware  that  a  young  man 
was  standing  beside  me  and  smiling  into  my  face. 

"Mally,"  he  said  very  softly,  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Something  in  the  voice  made  me  giddy,  something  in  the 
blue  eyes  made  me  tremble.  I  looked  at  him  but  did  not  speak. 

' '  Don 't  you  know  me,  Mally  ? "  he  said. 

I  felt  as  if  a  rosy  veil  were  falling  over  my  face  and  neck.  A 
flood  of  joy  was  sweeping  through  me.  At  last  I  knew  who 
it  was. 

It  was  Martin  Conrad,  grown  to  be  a  man,  a  tall,  powerful, 
manly  man,  but  with  the  same  face  still — an  elusive  ghost  of 
the  boy's  face  I  used  to  look  up  to  and  love. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  out  on  the  piazza  in  front  of 


92  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

the  church,  and  with  a  nervous  rush  of  joyous  words  he  was 
telling  me  what  had  brought  him  to  Rome. 

Having  just  ''scraped  through"  his  examinations,  and 
taken  his  degree — couldn't  have  done  so  if  the  examiners  had 
not  been  ' '  jolly  good ' '  to  him — he  had  heard  that  Lieut.  .  .  . 
; — was  going  down  to  the  great  ice  barrier  that  bounds  the 
South  Pole,  to  investigate  the  sources  of  winds  and  tides,  so  he 
had  offered  himself  as  doctor  to  the  expedition  and  been 
accepted. 

Sailing  from  the  Thames  ten  days  ago  they  had  put  into 
Naples  that  morning  for  coal,  and  taking  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  he  had  run  up  to  Rome,  remembering  that  I  was  at 
school  here,  but  never  expecting  to  see  me,  and  coming  upon  me 
by  the  merest  accident  in  the  world — something  having  said  to 
him,  "Let's  go  in  here  and  look  at  this  queer  old  church." 

He  had  to  leave  to-morrow  at  two,  though,  having  to  sail  the 
same  night,  but  of  course  it  would  be  luck  to  go  farther  south 
than  Charcot  and  make  another  attack  on  the  Antarctic  night. 

I  could  see  that  life  was  full  of  faith  and  hope  and  all  good 
things  for  him,  and  remembering  some  episodes  of  the  past 
I  said: 

"So  you  are  going  'asploring'  in  earnest  at  last?" 

"At  last,"  he  answered,  and  we  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  laughed  as  we  stood  together  on  the  church  steps, 
with  little  tender  waves  of  feeling  from  our  childhood  sweep- 
ing to  our  feet. 

"And  you?"  he  said.  "You  look  just  the  same.  I  knew 
you  instantly.  Yet  you  are  changed  too.  So  grown  and  so 
.  .  .  so  wonderfully  .  .  ." 

I  knew  what  he  meant  to  say,  and  being  too  much  of  a 
child  to  pretend  not  to  know,  and  too  much  of  a  woman 
(notwithstanding  my  nun-like  impulses)  not  to  find  joy  in  it, 
I  said  I  was  glad. 

"You've  left  the  Convent,  I  see.    When  did  that  happen?" 

I  told  him  three  weeks  ago — that  my  father  had  come  for 
me  and  we  were  going  back  to  Elian. 

"And  then?    What  are  you  going  to  do  then?"  he  asked. 

For  a  moment  I  felt  ashamed  to  answer,  but  at  last  I  told 
him  that  I  was  going  home  to  be  married. 

"Married?    When?    To  whom?" 

I  said  I  did  not  know  when,  but  it  was  to  be  to  the  young 
Lord  Raa. 


MY  GIRLHOOD  93 

"Raa?     Did  you  say  Raa?     That    .    .    .    Good  G 

But  surely  you  know    .     .     ." 

He  did  not  finish  what  he  was  going  to  say,  so  I  told  him 
I  did  not  know  anything,  not  having  seen  Lord  Raa  since  I 
came  to  school,  and  everything  having  been  arranged  for  me 
by  my  father. 

' '  Not  seen  him  since  .  .  .  everything  arranged  by  your 
father?" 

"Yes." 

Then  he  asked  me  abruptly  where  I  was  staying,  and  when 
I  told  him  he  said  he  would  walk  back  with  me  to  the  hotel. 

His  manner  had  suddenly  changed,  and  several  times  as  we 
walked  together  up  the  Tritoni  and  along  the  Du  Marcelli  he 
began  to  say  something  and  then  stopped. 

"Surely  your  father  knows     .     .     ." 

"If  he  does,  I  cannot  possibly  understand    .     .     ." 

I  did  not  pay  as  much  attention  to  his  broken  exclamations 
as  I  should  have  done  but  for  the  surprise  and  confusion  of 
coming  so  suddenly  upon  him  again ;  and  when,  as  we  reached 
the  hotel,  he  said: 

"I  wonder  if  your  father  will  allow  me  to  speak.     .     .     ." 

"I'm  sure  he'll  be  delighted,"  I  said,  and  then,  in  my  great 
impatience,  I  ran  upstairs  ahead  of  him  and  burst  into  my 
father 's  room,  crying : 

"Father,  whom  do  you  think  I  have  brought  to  see  you — 
look!" 

To  my  concern  and  discomfiture  my  father's  reception  of 
Martin  was  very  cool,  and  at  first  he  did  not  even  seem  to 
know  him. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  sir?"  said  Martin. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  can 't  just  place  you, ' '  said  my  father. 

After  I  had  made  them  known  to  each  other  they  sat  talking 
about  the  South  Pole  expedition,  but  it  was  a  chill  and  cheer- 
less interview,  and  after  a  few  minutes  Martin  rose  to  go. 

"I  find  it  kind  of  hard  to  figure  you  fellows  out,"  said  my 
father.  "No  money  that  I  know  of  has  ever  been  made  in 
the  Unknown,  as  you  call  it,  and  if  you  discover  both  Poles 
I  don't  just  see  how  they're  to  be  worth  a  two-cent  stamp  to 
you.  But  you  know  best,  so  good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you!" 

I  went  out  to  the  lift  with  Martin,  who  asked  if  he  could  take 
me  for  a  walk  in  the  morning.  I  answered  yes,  and  inquired 
what  hour  he  would  call  for  me. 


94  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Twelve  o'clock,"  he  replied,  and  I  said  that  would  suit 
me  exactly. 

The  Bishop  came  to  dine  with  us  that  night,  and  after  din- 
ner, when  I  had  gone  to  the  window  to  look  out  over  the  city 
for  the  three  lights  on  the  Loggia  of  the  Vatican,  he  and  my 
father  talked  together  for  a  long  time  in  a  low  tone. 

They  were  still  talking  when  I  left  them  to  go  to  bed. 

TWENTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

AT  breakfast  next  morning  my  father  told  me  that  something 
unexpected  had  occurred  to  require  that  we  should  return 
home  immediately,  and  therefore  he  had  sent  over  to  Cook's 
for  seats  by  the  noon  express. 

I  was  deeply  disappointed,  but  I  knew  my  father  too  well 
to  demur,  so  I  slipped  away  to  my  room  and  sent  a  letter  to 
Martin,  explaining  the  change  in  our  plans  and  saying  good- 
bye to  him. 

When  we  reached  the  station,  however,  I  found  Martin 
waiting  on  the  platform  in  front  of  the  compartment  that 
was  labelled  with  our  name. 

I  thought  my  father  was  even  more  brusque  with  him  than 
before,  and  the  Bishop,  who  was  to  travel  with  us,  was  curt 
almost  to  rudeness.  But  Martin  did  not  seem  to  mind  that  this 
morning,  for  his  lower  lip  had  the  stiff  setting  which  I  had  seen 
in  it  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  after  I  stepped  into  the  carriage 
he  stepped  in  after  me,  leaving  the  two  men  on  the  platform. 

"Shall  you  be  long  away?"  I  asked. 

"Too  long  unfortunately.  Six  months,  nine — perhaps 
twelve,  worse  luck !  Wish  I  hadn  't  to  go  at  all, ' '  he  answered. 

I  was  surprised  and  asked  why,  whereupon  he  stammered 
some  excuse,  and  then  said  abruptly: 

"I  suppose  you'll  not  be  married  for  some  time  at  all 
events?" 

I  told  him  I  did  not  know,  everything  depending  on  my 
father. 

"Anyhow,  you'll  see  and  hear  for  yourself  when  you  reach 
home,  and  then  perhaps  you'll  .  .  ." 

I  answered  that  I  should  have  to  do  what  my  father  desired, 
being  a  girl,  and  therefore  .  .  = 

"But  surely  a  girl  has  some  rights  of  her  own,"  he  said,  and 
then  I  was  silent  and  a  little  ashamed,  having  a  sense  of  female 


MY  GIRLHOOD  95 

helplessness  which  I  had  never  felt  before  and  could  find  no 
words  for. 

"I'll  write  to  yonr  father,"  he  said,  and  just  at  that  moment 
the  bell  rang,  and  my  father  came  into  the  compartment, 
saying : 

"Now  then,  young  man,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  taken  up  to 
the  North  Pole  instead  of  going  down  to  the  South  one  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right,  sir.  Don't  you  trouble  about  me.  I  can 
take  care  of  myself,"  said  Martin. 

Something  in  his  tone  must  have  said  more  than  his  words 
to  my  father  and  the  Bishop,  for  I  saw  that  they  looked  at 
each  other  with  surprise. 

Then  the  bell  rang  again,  the  engine  throbbed,  and  Martin 
said,  "Good-bye!  Good-bye!" 

While  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station  he  stood  bareheaded 
on  the  platform  with  such  a  woebegone  face  that  looking  back 
at  him  my  throat  began  to  hurt  me  as  it  used  to  do  when  I 
was  a  child. 

I  was  very  sad  that  day  as  we  travelled  north.  My  adopted 
country  had  become  dear  to  me  during  my  ten  years'  exile 
from  home,  and  I  thought  I  was  seeing  the  last  of  my  beautiful 
Italy,  crowned  with  sunshine  and  decked  with  flowers. 

But  there  was  another  cause  of  my  sadness,  and  that  was 
the  thought  of  Martin 's  uneasiness  about  my  marriage  and  the 
feeling  that  if  he  had  anything  to  say  to  my  father  he  ought  to 
have  said  it  then. 

And  there  was  yet  another  cause  of  which  I  was  quite 
unconscious — that  like  every  other  girl  before  love  dawns  on 
her,  half  of  my  nature  was  still  asleep,  the  half  that  makes 
life  lovely  and  the  world  dear. 

To  think  that  Martin  Conrad  was  the  one  person  who  could 
have  wakened  my  sleeping  heart!  That  a  word,  a  look,  a 
smile  from  him  that  day  could  have  changed  the  whole  current 
of  my  life,  and  that  .  .  . 

But  no,  I  will  not  reproach  him.  Have  I  not  known  since 
the  day  on  St.  Mary's  Rock  that  above  all  else  he  is  a  born 
gentleman  ? 

And  yet     ,     ,     .     And  yet    ... 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

AND  yet  I  was  a  fool,  or  in  spite  of  everything  I  should  have 
spoken  to  Daniel  O'Neill  before  he  left  Rome.  I  should  have 
said  to  him : 


96  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Do  you  know  that  the  man  to  whom  you  are  going  to 
marry  your  daughter  is  a  profligate  and  a  reprobate  ?  If  you 
do  know  this,  are  you  deliberately  selling  her,  body  and  soul, 
to  gratify  your  lust  of  rank  and  power  and  all  the  rest  of 
your  rotten  aspirations?" 

That  is  what  I  ought  to  have  done,  but  didn't  do.  I  was 
afraid  of  being  thought  to  have  personal  motives — of  inter- 
fering where  I  wasn't  wanted,  of  butting  in  when  I  had  no 
right. 

Yet  I  felt  I  had  a  right,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  throw 
up  everything  and  go  back  to  Elian.  But  the  expedition 
was  the  big  chance  I  had  been  looking  forward  to  and  I  could 
not  give  it  up. 

So  I  resolved  to  write.  But  writing  isn't  exactly  my  job, 
and  it  took  me  a  fortnight  to  get  anything  done  to  my  satis- 
faction. By  that  time  we  were  at  Port  Said,  and  from  there 
I  posted  three  letters, — the  first  to  Daniel  O'Neill,  the  second 
to  Bishop  Walsh,  the  third  to  Father  Dan. 

Would  they  reach  in  tune?  If  so,  would  they  be  read 
and  considered  or  resented  and  destroyed  ? 

I  did  not  know.  I  could  not  guess.  And  then  I  was  going 
down  into  the  deep  Antarctic  night,  where  no  sound  from 
the  living  world  could  reach  me. 

What  would  happen  before  I  could  get  back?  Only  God 
could  say.  M.  C. 


SECOND  PART 
MY  MARRIAGE 

TWENTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

NOTWITHSTANDING  my  father's  anxiety  to  leave  Rome  we 
travelled  slowly  and  it  was  a  week  before  we  reached  Elian. 
By  that  time  my  depression  had  disappeared,  and  I  was 
quivering  with  mingled  curiosity  and  fear  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  the  man  who  was  to  be  my  husband. 

My  father,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  was  equally  excited, 
and  as  we  sailed  into  the  bay  at  Blackwater  he  pointed  out 
the  developments  which  had  been  made  under  his  direction — 
the  hotels,  theatres,  dancing  palaces  and  boarding  houses  that 
lined  the  sea-front,  and  the  electric  railways  that  ran  up  to  the 
tops  of  the  mountains. 

"See  that?"  he  cried.  ''I  told  them  I  could  make  this 
old  island  hum. ' ' 

On  a  great  stone  pier  that  stood  deep  into  the  bay,  a  crowd 
of  people  were  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  steamer. 

' '  That 's  nothing, ' '  said  my  father.  ' '  Nothing  to  what  you 
see  at  the  height  of  the  season." 

As  soon  as  we  had  drawn  up  alongside  the  pier,  and  before 
the  passengers  had  landed,  four  gentlemen  came  aboard,  and 
my  heart  thumped  with  the  thought  that  my  intended  husband 
would  be  one  of  them;  but  he  was  not,  and  the  first  words 
spoken  to  my  father  were — 

"His  lordship's  apologies,  sir.  He  has  an  engagement 
to-day,  but  hopes  to  see  you  at  your  own  house  to-morrow 
morning. ' ' 

I  recognised  the  speaker  as  the  guardian  (grown  greyer  and 
even  less  prepossessing)  who  had  crossed  with  the  young 
Lord  Raa  when  he  was  going  up  to  Oxford ;  and  his  compan- 
ions were  a  smooth-faced  man  with  searching  eyes  who  was 
introduced  as  his  lordship's  solicitor  from  London,  a  Mr. 
Curphy,  whom  I  knew  to  be  my  father's  advocate,  and  my 
dear  old  Father  Dan. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  Father  Dan  a  smaller  man  than  I 
had  thought  him,  very  plain  and  provincial,  a  little  country 

97  G 


98  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

parish  priest,  but  he  had  the  tender  smile  I  always  remem- 
bered, and  the  sweet  Irish  roll  of  the  vowels  that  I  could  never 
forget. 

' '  God  bless  you, ' '  he  said.  ' '  How  well  you  're  looking !  And 
how  like  your  mother,  Lord  rest  her  soul !  I  knew  the  Blessed 
Virgin  would  take  care  of  you,  and  she  has,  she  has." 

Three  conveyances  were  waiting  for  us — a  grand  brougham 
for  the  Bishop,  a  big  motor  car  for  the  guardian  and  the 
London  lawyer,  and  a  still  bigger  one  for  ourselves. 

"Well,  s'long  until  to-morrow  then,"  cried  my  father, 
getting  up  into  the  front  row  of  his  own  car,  with  the  advocate 
beside  him  and  Father  Dan  and  myself  behind. 

On  the  way  home  Father  Dan  talked  of  the  business  that 
had  brought  me  back,  saying  I  was  not  to  think  too  much  of 
anything  he  might  have  said  of  Lord  Raa  in  his  letters,  seeing 
that  he  had  spoken  from  hearsay,  and  the  world  was  so  cen- 
sorious— and  then  there  was  no  measuring  the  miraculous 
Influence  that  might  be  exercised  by  a  good  woman. 

He  said  this  with  a  certain  constraint,  and  was  more  at 
ease  when  he  spoke  of  the  joy  that  ought  to  come  into  a  girl's 
life  at  her  marriage — her  first  love,  her  first  love-letter,  her 
wedding-day  and  her  first  baby,  all  the  sweet  and  wonderful 
things  of  a  new  existence  which  a  man  could  never  know. 

"Even  an  old  priest  may  see  that,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  pat  of  my  hand. 

We  dropped  Mr.  Curphy  at  his  house  in  Holmtown,  and 
then  my  father  sat  with  us  at  the  back,  and  talked  with  tremen- 
dous energy  of  what  he  had  done,  of  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
and  of  all  the  splendours  that  were  before  me. 

"You'll  be  the  big  woman  of  the  island,  gel,  and  there 
won't  be  a  mother's  son  that  dare  say  boo  to  you." 

I  noticed  that,  in  his  excitement,  his  tongue,  dropping  the 
suggestion  of  his  adopted  country,  reverted  to  the  racy  speech 
of  his  native  soil ;  and  I  had  a  sense  of  being  with  him  before 
I  was  born,  when  he  returned  home  from  America  with 
millions  of  dollars  at  his  back,  and  the  people  who  had  made 
game  of  his  father  went  down  before  his  face  like  a  flood. 

Such  of  them  as  had  not  done  so  then  (being  of  the  "aristo- 
cracy" of  the  island  and  remembering  the  humble  stock  he 
came  from)  were  to  do  so  now,  for  in  the  second  generation, 
and  by  means  of  his  daughter's  marriage,  he  was  going  to 
triumph  over  them  all. 

"We'll  beat   'em,  gel!     My  gough,  yes,  we'll  beat   'em!" 


MY  MARRIAGE  99 

lie  cried,  with  a  flash  of  his  black  eyes  and  a  masterful  lift 
of  his  eyebrows. 

As  we  ran  by  the  mansions  of  the  great  people  of  Elian,  he 
pointed  them  out  to  me  with  a  fling  of  the  arm  and  spoke  of 
the  families  in  a  tone  of  contempt. 

11  See  that?  That's  Christian  of  Balla-Christian.  The  man 
snubbed  me  six  months  ago.  He'll  know  better  six  months 
to  come.  .  .  .  That's  Eyreton.  His  missus  was  too  big 
to  call  on  your  mother — she'll  call  on  you,  though,  you  go 
bail.  See  yonder  big  tower  in  the  trees?  That's  Folksdale, 
where  the  Farragans  live.  The  daughters  have  been  walking 
over  the  world  like  peacocks,  but  they  '11  crawl  on  it  like  cock- 
roaches. .  .  .  Hulloh,  here's  ould  Balgean  of  Eagle  Hill, 
in  his  grand  carriage  with  his  English  coachman.  .  .  . 
See  that,  though?  See  him  doff  his  hat  to  you,  the  ould 
hypocrite?  He  knows  something.  He's  got  an  inkling. 
Things  travel.  We  '11  beat  'em,  gel,  we  '11  beat  'em !  They  '11  be 
round  us  like  bees  about  a  honeypot." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  catch  the  contagion  of  my  father's 
triumphant  spirits,  and  in  my  different  way  I  found  myself 
tingling  with  delight  as  I  recognised  the  scenes  associated 
with  my  childhood — the  village,  the  bridge,  the  lane  to  Sunny 
Lodge  and  Murphy's  Mouth,  and  the  trees  that  bordered  our 
drive. 

Nearly  everything  looked  smaller  or  narrower  or  lower 
than  I  had  thought,  but  I  had  forgotten  how  lovely  they  all 
were,  lying  so  snugly  under  the  hill  and  with  the  sea  in 
front  of  them. 

Our  house  alone  when  we  drove  up  to  it  seemed  larger  than 
I  had  expected,  but  my  father  explained  this  by  saying: 

(l Improvements,  gel!  I'll  show  you  over  them  to-morrow 
morning. ' ' 

Aunt  Bridget  (white-headed  now  and  wearing  spectacles 
and  a  white  cap),  Betsy  Beauty  (grown  tall  and  round,  with 
a  kind  of  country  comeliness)  and  Nessy  MacLeod  (looking 
like  a  premature  old  maid  who  was  doing  her  best  to  be  a 
girl)  were  waiting  at  the  open  porch  when  our  car  drew  up, 
and  they  received  me  with  surprising  cordiality. 

' '  Here  she  is  at  last ! ' '  said  Aunt  Bridget. 

"And  such  luck  as  she  has  come  home  to!"  said  Betsy 
Beauty. 

There  were  compliments  on  the  improvement  in  my  appear- 
ance (Aunt  Bridget  declaring  she  could  not  have  believed 


100  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

it,  she  really  could  not),  and  then  Nessy  undertook  to  take 
me  to  my  room. 

"It's  the  same  room  still,  Mary,"  said  my  Aunt,  calling 
to  me  as  I  went  upstairs.  "When  they  were  changing  every- 
thing else  I  remembered  your  poor  dear  mother  and  wouldn  't 
hear  of  their  changing  that.  It  isn  't  a  bit  altered. ' ' 

It  was  not.  Everything  was  exactly  as  I  remembered  it. 
But  just  as  I  was  beginning  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
to  feel  grateful  to  Aunt  Bridget,  Nessy  said: 

"No  thanks  to  her,  though.  If  she'd  had  her  way,  she 
would  have  wiped  out  every  trace  of  your  mother,  and 
arranged  this  marriage  for  her  own  daughter  instead." 

More  of  the  same  kind  she  said  which  left  me  with  the 
impression  that  my  father  was  now  the  god  of  her  idolatry, 
and  that  my  return  was  not  too  welcome  to  my  aunt  and 
cousin;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  and  I  was  left  alone, 
home  began  to  speak  to  me  in  soft  and  entrancing  whispers. 

How  my  pulses  beat,  how  my  nerves  tingled!  Home! 
Home !  Home ! 

From  that  dear  spot  everything  seemed  to  be  the  same, 
and  everything  had  something  to  say  to  me.  What  sweet  and 
tender  and  touching  memories! 

Here  was  the  big  black  four-post  bed,  with  the  rosary 
hanging  at  its  head;  and  here  was  the  praying-stool  with 
the  figure  of  Our  Lady  on  the  wall  above  it. 

I  threw  up  the  window,  and  there  was  the  salt  breath  of 
the  sea  in  the  crisp  island  air;  there  was  the  sea  itself  glisten- 
ing in  the  afternoon  sunshine;  there  was  St.  Mary's  Rock 
draped  in  its  garment  of  sea-weed,  and  there  were  the  clouds 
of  white  sea-gulls  whirling  about  it. 

Taking  off  my  hat  and  coat  I  stepped  downstairs  and  out 
of  the  house — going  first  into  the  farm-yard  where  the  spring- 
less  carts  were  still  clattering  over  the  cobble-stones;  then 
into  the  cow-house,  where  the  milkmaids  were  still  sitting  on 
low  stools  with  their  heads  against  the  sides  of  the  slow-eyed 
Brownies,  and  the  milk  rattling  in  their  noisy  pails;  then 
into  the  farm-kitchen,  where  the  air  was  full  of  the  odour  of 
burning  turf  and  the  still  sweeter  smell  of  cakes  baking  on  a 
griddle ;  and  finally  into  the  potting-shed  in  the  garden,  where 
Tommy  the  Mate  (more  than  ever  like  a  weather-beaten  old 
salt)  was  still  working  as  before. 

The  old  man  looked  round  with  his  "starboard  eye,"  and 
recognised  me  instantly. 


MY  MARRIAGE  101 

"God  bless  my  sowl,"  he  cried,  "if  it  isn't  the  IT  missy! 
Well,  well!  Well,  well!  And  she's  a  woman  grown!  A 
real  lady  too!  My  gracious,  yes,"  he  said,  after  a  second  and 
longer  look,  "and  there  hasn't  been  the  match  of  her  on  this 
island  since  they  laid  her  mother  under  the  sod ! ' ' 

I  wanted  to  ask  him  a  hundred  questions,  but  Aunt  Bridget, 
who  had  been  watching  from  a  window,  called  from  the  house 
to  say  she  was  "mashing"  a  cup  of  tea  for  me,  so  I  returned 
to  the  drawing-room  where  (my  father  being  busy  with  his 
letters  in  the  library)  Betsy  Beauty  talked  for  half  an  hour 
about  Lord  Raa,  his  good  looks,  distinguished  manners  and 
general  accomplishments. 

' '  But  aren  't  you  just  dying  to  see  him  ? "  she  said. 

I  saw  him  the  following  morning. 

TWENTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

I  WAS  sitting  in  my  own  room,  writing  to  the  Reverend 
Mother,  to  tell  her  of  my  return  home,  when  I  heard  the  toot 
of  a  horn  and  raising  my  eyes  saw  a  motor  car  coming  up 
the  drive.  It  contained  three  gentlemen,  one  of  them  wore 
goggles  and  carried  a  silver-haired  terrier  on  his  knees. 

A  little  later  Nessy  MacLeod  came  to  tell  me  that  Lord  Raa 
and  his  party  had  arrived  and  I  was  wanted  immediately. 

I  went  downstairs  hesitatingly,  with  a  haunting  sense  of 
coming  trouble.  Reaching  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  I 
saw  my  intended  husband  for  the  first  time — there  being 
nothing  in  his  appearance  to  awaken  in  me  the  memory  of 
ever  having  seen  him  before. 

He  was  on  the  hearthrug  in  front  of  the  fire,  talking  to 
Betsy  Beauty,  who  was  laughing  immoderately.  To  get  a 
better  look  at  him,  and  at  the  same  time  to  compose  myself, 
I  stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  the  three  gentlemen 
(the  two  lawyers  and  Lord  Raa's  trustee  or  guardian)  who 
were  standing  with  my  father  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

He  was  undoubtedly  well-dressed  and  had  a  certain  air  of 
breeding,  but  even  to  my  girlish  eyes  he  betrayed  at  that 
first  sight  the  character  of  a  man  who  had  lived  an  irregular, 
perhaps  a  dissipated  life. 

His  face  was  pale,  almost  puffy,  his  grey  eyes  were  slow 
and  heavy,  his  moustache  was  dark  and  small,  his  hair  was 
thin  over  his  forehead,  and  he  had  a  general  appearance 
of  being  much  older  than  his  years,  which  I  knew  to  be 
thirty-three. 


102  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

His  manners,  when  I  approached  him,  were  courteous  and 
gentle,  almost  playful  and  indulgent,  but  through  all  their 
softness  there  pierced  a  certain  hardness,  not  to  say  brutality, 
which  I  afterwards  learned  (when  life  had  had  its  tug  at  me) 
to  associate  with  a  man  who  has  spent  much  of  his  time 
among  women  of  loose  character. 

Betsy  Beauty  made  a  great  matter  of  introducing  us;  but 
in  a  drawling  voice,  and  with  a  certain  play  of  humour, 
he  told  her  it  was  quite  unnecessary,  since  we  were  very  old 
friends,  having  made  each  other's  acquaintance  as  far  back  as 
ten  years  ago,  when  I  was  the  prettiest  little  woman  in  the 
world,  he  remembered,  though  perhaps  my  manners  were 
not  quite  cordial. 

"We  had  a  slight  difference  on  the  subject  of  kisses.  Don't 
you  remember  it?" 

Happily  there  was  no  necessity  to  reply,  for  my  father 
came  to  say  that  he  wished  to  show  his  lordship  the  improve- 
ments he  had  been  making,  and  the  rest  of  us  were  at  liberty 
to  follow  them. 

The  improvements  consisted  chiefly  of  a  new  wing  to  the 
old  house,  containing  a  dining  room,  still  unfurnished,  which 
had  been  modelled,  as  I  found  later,  on  the  corresponding 
room  in  Castle  Raa. 

With  a  proud  lift  of  his  white  head  my  father  pointed  out 
the  beauties  of  his  new  possession,  while  my  intended  husband, 
with  his  monocle  to  his  eye,  looked  on  with  a  certain  conde- 
scension, and  answered  with  a  languid  humour  that  narrowly 
bordered  on  contempt. 

"Oak,  sir,  solid  oak,"  said  my  father,  rapping  with  his 
knuckles  on  the  tall,  dark,  heavy  wainscoting. 

' '  As  old  as  our  hearts  and  as  hard  as  our  heads,  I  suppose, ' ' 
said  Lord  Raa. 

"Harder  than  some,  sir,"  said  my  father. 

' '  Exactly, ' '  said  Lord  Raa  in  his  slow  drawl,  and  then  there 
was  general  laughter. 

The  bell  rang  for  luncheon,  and  we  went  into  the  plain  old 
dining  room,  where  Aunt  Bridget  placed  her  principal  guest 
on  her  right  and  told  him  all  about  her  late  husband,  the 
Colonel,  his  honours  and  military  achievements. 

I  could  see  that  Lord  Raa  was  soon  very  weary  of  this,  and 
more  than  once,  sitting  by  his  side,  I  caught  the  cynical  and 
rather  supercilious  responses  to  which,  under  the  gloss  of  his 
gracious  manners,  Aunt  Bridget  seemed  quite  oblivious. 


MY  MARRIAGE  103 

I  was  so  nervous  and  embarrassed  that  I  spoke  very  little 
during  luncheon,  and  even  Aunt  Bridget  observed  this  at  last. 

"Mary,  dear,  why  don't  you  speak?"  she  said. 

But  without  waiting  for  my  reply  she  proceeded  to  explain 
to  his  lordship  that  the  strangest  change  had  come  over  me 
since  I  was  a  child,  when  I  had  been  the  sauciest  little  chatter- 
box in  the  world,  whereas  now  I  was  so  shy  that  it  was  nearly 
impossible  to  get  a  word  out  of  me. 

"Hope  I  shall  be  able  to  get  one  word  out  of  her,  at  least," 
said  his  lordship,  whereupon  Aunt  Bridget  smiled  significantly 
and  Betsy  Beauty  burst  into  fits  of  laughter. 

Almost  before  the  meal  was  over,  my  father  rose  from  his 
seat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  indicating  the  lawyers  who 
sat  near  to  him,  he  said: 

"These  gentlemen  and  I  have  business  to  fix  up — money 
matters  and  all  that — so  I  guess  we'll  step  into  the  library 
and  leave  you  young  people  to  look  after  yourselves." 

Everybody  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"All  back  for  tea-time,"  said  Aunt  Bridget. 

"Of  course  you  don't  want  me,"  said  Betsy  Beauty  with  a 
giggle,  and  at  the  next  moment  I  was  alone  with  his  lordship, 
who  drew  a  long  breath  that  was  almost  like  a  yawn,  and 
said: 

"Is  there  no  quiet  place  we  can  slip  away  to?" 

There  was  the  glen  at  the  back  of  the  house  (the  Cape 
Flora  of  Martin  Conrad),  so  I  took  him  into  that,  not  without 
an  increasing  sense  of  embarrassment.  It  was  a  clear  Oc- 
tober day,  the  glen  was  dry,  and  the  air  under  the  shadow 
of  the  thinning  trees  was  full  of  the  soft  light  of  the  late 
autumn. 

"Ah,  this  is  better,"  said  his  lordship. 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  walked  for  some  time  by  my  side  without 
speaking,  merely  flicking  the  seeding  heads  off  the  dying 
thistles  with  his  walking  stick,  and  then  ruckling  it  through 
the  withered  leaves  with  which  the  path  was  strewn. 

But  half  way  up  the  glen  he  began  to  look  aslant  at  me 
through  his  monocle,  and  then  to  talk  about  my  life  in  Rome, 
wondering  how  I  could  have  been  content  to  stay  so  long  at 
the  Convent,  and  hinting  at  a  rumour  which  had  reached 
him  that  I  had  actually  wished  to  stay  there  altogether. 

"Extraordinary!  Ton  my  word,  extraordinary!  It's 
well  enough  for  women  who  have  suffered  shipwreck  in  their 


104  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

lives  to  live  in  such  places,  but  for  a  young  gal  with  any 
fortune,  any  looks  .  .  .  why  I  wonder  she  doesn't  die  of 
ennui." 

I  was  still  too  nervous  and  embarrassed  to  make  much 
protest,  so  he  went  on  to  tell  me  with  what  difficulty  he 
supported  the  boredom  of  his  own  life  even  in  London,  with 
its  clubs,  its  race-meetings,  its  dances,  its  theatres  and  music 
halls,  and  the  amusement  to  be  got  out  of  some  of  the  ladies 
of  society,  not  to  speak  of  certain  well-known  professional 
beauties. 

One  of  his  great  friends — his  name  was  Eastcliff — was  going 
to  marry  the  most  famous  of  the  latter  class  (a  foreign  dancer 
at  the  ''Empire"),  and  since  he  was  rich  and  could  afford 
to  please  himself,  why  shouldn't  he? 

When  we  reached  the  waterfall  at  the  top  of  the  glen  (it 
had  been  the  North  Cape  of  Martin  Conrad),  we  sat  on  a 
rustic  seat  which  stands  there,  and  then,  to  my  still  deeper 
embarrassment,  his  lordship's  conversation  came  to  close 
quarters. 

Throwing  away  his  cigar  and  taking  his  silver-haired  terrier 
on  his  lap  he  said : 

"Of  course  you  know  what  the  business  is  which  the 
gentlemen  are  discussing  in  the  library?" 

As  well  as  I  could  for  the  nervousness  that  was  stifling 
me,  I  answered  that  I  knew. 

He  stroked  the  dog  with  one  hand,  prodded  his  stick  into 
the  gravel  with  the  other,  and  said: 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  your  views  about  marriage  are. 
Mine,  I  may  say,  are  liberal." 

I  listened  without  attempting  to  reply. 

"I  think  nine-tenths  of  the  trouble  that  attends  married 
life — the  breakdowns  and  what  not — come  of  an  irrational 
effort  to  tighten  the  marriage  knot." 

Still  I  said  nothing. 

"To  imagine  that  two  independent  human  beings  can  be 
tied  together  like  a  couple  of  Siamese  twins,  neither  to  move 
without  the  other,  living  precisely  the  same  life,  year  in,  year 
out  ,  .  .  why,  it's  silly,  positively  silly." 

In  my  ignorance  I  could  find  nothing  to  say,  and  after 
another  moment  my  intended  husband  swished  the  loosened 
gravel  with  his  stick  and  said : 

"I  believe  in  married  people  leaving  each  other  free — each 
going  his  and  her  own  way — what  do  you  think  ? ' ' 


MY  MARRIAGE  105 

I  must  have  stammered  some  kind  of  answer — I  don't 
know  what — for  I  remember  that  he  said  next: 

"Quite  so,  that's  my  view  of  matrimony,  and  I'm  glad  to 
see  you  appear  to  share  it.  ...  Tell  the  truth,  I  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't,"  he  added,  with  something  more  about 
the  nuns  and  the  convent. 

I  wanted  to  say  that  I  didn't,  but  my  nervousness  was 
increasing  every  moment,  and  before  I  could  find  words  in 
which  to  protest  he  was  speaking  to  me  again. 

"Our  friends  in  the  library  seem  to  think  that  you  and  I 
could  get  along  together,  and  I'm  disposed  to  think  they're 
right — aren't  you?" 

In  my  ignorance  and  helplessness,  and  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  I  was  expected  to  do,  I  merely  looked  at  him 
without  speaking. 

Then  he  fixed  his  monocle  afresh,  and,  looking  back  at  me 
in  a  curious  way,  he  said: 

"I  don't  think  I  should  bore  you,  my  dear.  In  fact,  I 
should  be  rather  proud  of  having  a  good-looking  woman  for 
my  wife,  and  I  fancy  I  could  give  you  a  good  time.  In  any 
case" — this  with  a  certain  condescension — "my  name  might 
be  of  some  use  to  you." 

A  sort  of  shame  was  creeping  over  me.  The  dog  was 
yawning  in  my  face.  My  intended  husband  threw  it  off 
his  knee. 

' '  Shall  we  consider  it  a  settled  thing,  then  ? "  he  asked,  and 
when  in  my  confusion  I  still  made  no  reply  (having  nothing 
which  I  felt  myself  entitled  to  say),  he  said  something  about 
Aunt  Bridget  and  what  she  had  told  him  at  luncheon  about 
my  silence  and  shyness,  and  then  rising  to  his  feet  he  put 
my  arm  through  his  own,  and  turned  our  faces  towards 
home. 

That  was  all.  As  I  am  a  truthful  woman,  that  was  every- 
thing. Not  a  word  from  me,  nay,  not  half  a  word,  merely  a 
passive  act  of  silent  acquiescence,  and  in  my  youthful  and 
almost  criminal  innocence  I  was  committed  to  the  most 
momentous  incident  of  my  life. 

But  if  there  was  no  love-making,  no  fondling,  no  kissing, 
no  courtship  of  any  kind,  and  none  of  the  delirious  rapture 
which  used  to  be  described  in  Alma's  novels,  I  was  really 
grateful  for  that,  and  immensely  relieved  to  find  that  matters 
could  be  completed  without  them. 

When  we  reached  the  house,  the  bell  was  ringing  for  tea. 


106  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

and  my  father  was  coming  out  of  the  library,  followed  by  the 
lawyers. 

"So  that's  all  right,  gentlemen?"  he  was  saying. 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,  sir,"  they  were  answering;  and 
then,  seeing  us  as  we  entered,  my  father  said  to  Lord  Raa: 

"And  what  about  you  two?" 

"We're  all  right  also,"  said  his  lordship  in  his  drawling 
voice. 

"Good!"  said  my  father,  and  he  slapped  his  lordship 
sharply  on  the  back,  to  his  surprise,  and  I  think,  discomfiture. 

Then  with  a  cackle  of  light  laughter  among  the  men,  we 
all  trooped  into  the  drawing  room. 

Aunt  Bridget  in  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and  new  white 
cap,  poured  out  the  tea  from  our  best  silver  tea-pot,  while 
Nessy  MacLeod  with  a  geranium  in  her  red  hair,  and  Betsy 
Beauty,  with  large  red  roses  in  her  bosom,  handed  round 
the  cups.  After  a  moment,  my  father,  with  a  radiant  face, 
standing  back  to  the  fire,  said  in  a  loud  voice : 

' '  Friends  all,  I  have  something  to  tell  you. ' ' 

Everybody  except  myself  looked  up  and  listened,  though 
everybody  knew  what  was  coming. 

' '  We  Ve  had  a  stiff  tussle  in  the  library  this  afternoon,  but 
everything  is  settled  satisfactory — and  the  marriage  is  as 
good  as  made." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  congratulations  for  me,  and  a  few 
for  his  lordship,  and  then  my  father  said  again : 

' '  Of  course  there  '11  be  deeds  to  draw  up,  and  I  want  things 
done  correct,  even  if  it  costs  me  a  bit  of  money.  But  we've 
only  one  thing  more  to  fix  up  to-day,  and  then  we  're  through — 
the  wedding.  When  is  it  to  come  off?" 

An  appeal  was  made  to  me,  but  I  felt  it  was  only  formal, 
so  I  glanced  across  to  Lord  Raa  without  speaking. 

"Come  now,"  said  my  father,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  "The  clean  cut  is  the  short  cut,  you  know,  and  when 
I'm  sot  on  doing  a  thing,  I  can't  take  rest  till  it's  done.  What 
do  you  say  to  this  day  next  month?" 

I  bowed  and  my  intended  husband,  in  his  languid  way, 
said: 

"Agreed!" 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  the  motor  was  ordered  round, 
and  the  gentlemen  prepared  to  go.  Then  the  silver-haired 
terrier  was  missed,  and  for  the  first  time  that  day  his  lordship 
betrayed  a  vivid  interest,  telling  us  its  price  and  pedigree 


MY  MARRIAGE  107 

and  how  much  he  would  give  rather  than  lose  it.  But  at  the 
last  moment  Tommy  appeared  with  the  dog  in  his  arms  and 
dropped  it  into  the  car,  whereupon  my  intended  husband 
thanked  him  effusively. 

"Yes,"  said  Tommy,  "I  thought  you  set  store  by  that,  sir." 

At  the  next  moment  the  car  was  gone. 

"Well,  you  are  a  lucky  girl,"  said  Betsy  Beauty;  and 
Aunt  Bridget  began  to  take  credit  to  herself  for  all  that 
had  come  to  pass,  and  to  indicate  the  methods  by  which  she 
meant  to  manage  Castle  Raa  as  soon  as  ever  I  became  mistress 
of  it. 

Thus  in  my  youth,  my  helplessness,  my  ignorance,  and 
my  inexperience  I  became  engaged  to  the  man  who  had  been 
found  and  courted  for  me.  If  I  acquiesced,  I  had  certainly 
not  been  consulted.  My  father  had  not  consulted  me.  My 
intended  husband  had  not  consulted  me.  Nobody  con- 
sulted me.  I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  thought  anybody 
was  under  any  obligation  to  consult  me.  Love  had  not 
spoken  to  me,  sex  was  still  asleep  in  me,  and  my  marriage 
was  arranged  before  my  deeper  nature  knew  what  was  being 
done. 

TWENTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

THE  next  weeks  were  full  of  hurry,  hubbub  and  perturbation. 
Our  house  was  turned  upside  down.  Milliners,  sewing-maids 
and  dressmakers  were  working  day  and  night.  Flowers, 
feathers  and  silk  remnants  were  flowing  like  sea-wrack  into 
every  room.  Orders  were  given,  orders  were  retracted  and 
given  again,  and  then  again  retracted. 

Such  flying  up  and  down  stairs !  Everybody  so  breathless ! 
Everybody  so  happy!  Every  face  wearing  a  smile!  Every 
tongue  rippling  with  laughter!  The  big  grey  mansion  which 
used  to  seem  so  chill  and  cold  felt  for  the  first  time  like  a 
house  of  joy.  >, 

In  the  midst  of  these  busy  preparations  I  had  no  time  to 
think.  My  senses  were  excited.  I  was  dazed,  stunned, 
wrapped  round  by  a  kind  of  warm  air  of  hot-house  happiness, 
and  this  condition  of  moral  intoxication  increased  as  the 
passing  of  the  days  brought  fresh  developments. 

Our  neighbours  began  to  visit  us.  My  father  had  been 
right  about  the  great  people  of  the  island.  Though  they  had 
stood  off  so  long,  they  found  their  account  in  my  good  fortune, 


108  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

and  as  soon  as  my  marriage  was  announced  they  caine  in 
troops  to  offer  their  congratulations 

Never,  according  to  Tommy  the  Mate,  had  the  gravel  of  our 
carriage  drive  been  so  rucked  up  by  the  pawing  feet  of  high- 
bred horses.  But  their  owners  were  no  less  restless.  It  was 
almost  pitiful  to  see  their  shame facedness  as  they  entered  our 
house  for  the  first  time,  and  to  watch  the  shifts  they  *were  put 
to  in  order  to  account  for  the  fact  that  they  had  never  been 
there  before. 

Aunt  Bridget's  vanity  was  too  much  uplifted  by  their 
presence  to  be  particular  about  their  excuses,  but  my  father's 
contempt  of  their  subterfuges  was  naked  and  undisguised,  and 
1  hardly  know  whether  to  feel  amused  or  ashamed  when  I 
think  of  how  he  scored  off  them,  how  he  lashed  them  to  the 
bone,  with  what  irony  and  sarcasm  he  scorched  their  time- 
serving little  souls. 

When  they  were  very  great  folks,  the  "aristocracy"  of 
Elian,  he  pretended  not  to  know  who  they  were,  and  asked 
their  names,  their  father's  names,  and  what  parishes  they 
came  from. 

"Some  of  the  Christians  of  Balla-Christian,  are  you?  Think 
of  that  now !  And  me  a  born  Ellanman,  and  not  knowing  you 
from  Adam!" 

When  they  were  very  near  neighbours,  with  lands  that  made 
boundary  with  our  own,  ,he  pretended  to  think  they  had  been 
twenty  years  abroad,  or  perhaps  sick,  or  even  dead  and  buried, 

"Too  bad,  ma'am,  too  bad,"  he  would  say.  "And  me 
thinking  you  were  under  the  sod  through  all  the  lonely  years 
my  poor  wife  was  ill  and  dying." 

But  when  they  were  insular  officials,  who  "walked  on  the 
stars,"  and  sometimes  snubbed  him  in  public,  the  rapier  of 
ridicule  was  too  light  for  his  heavy  hand,  and  he  took  up  the 
sledge-hammer,  telling  them  he  was  the  same  man  to-day  as 
yesterday,  and  only  his  circumstances  were  different — his 
daughter  being  about  to  become  the  lady  of  the  first  house  in 
the  island,  and  none  of  them  being  big  enough  to  be  left  out 
of  it. 

After  such  scenes  Aunt  Bridget,  for  all  her  despotism 
within  her  own  doors,  used  to  tremble  with  dread  of  our  neigh- 
bours taking  lasting  offence,  but  my  father  would  say : 

' '  Chut,  woman,  they  11  come  again,  and  make  no  more  faces 
about  it." 

They  did,  and  if  they  were  shy  of  my  father  they  were 


MY  MARRIAGE  109 

gracious  enough  to  me,  saying  it  was  such  a  good  thing  for 
society  in  the  island  that  Castle  Raa  was  to  have  a  lady,  a  real 
lady,  at  the  head  of  it  at  last. 

Then  came  their  wedding  presents — pictures,  books,  silver 
ornaments,  gold  ornaments,  clocks,  watches,  chains,  jewellery, 
until  my  bedroom  was  blocked  up  with  them.  As  each  fresh 
parcel  arrived  there  would  be  a  rush  of  all  the  female  members 
of  our  household  to  open  it,  after  which  Betsy  Beauty  would 
say: 

"What  a  lucky  girl  you  are!" 

I  began  to  think  I  was.  I  found  it  impossible  to  remain 
unaffected  by  the  whirlwind  of  joyous  turmoil  in  which  I 
lived.  The  refulgence  of  the  present  hour  wiped  out  the  past, 
which  seemed  to  fade  away  altogether.  After  the  first  few 
days  I  was  flying  about  from  place  to  place,  and  wherever  I 
went  I  was  a  subject  for  congratulation  and  envy. 

If  there  were  moments  of  misgiving,  when,  like  the  cold 
wind  out  of  a  tunnel,  there  came  the  memory  of  the  Reverend 
Mother  and  the  story  she  had  told  me  at  Nemi,  there  were 
other  moments  when  I  felt  quite  sure  that,  in  marrying  Lord 
Raa,  I  should  be  doing  a  self-sacrificing  thing  and  a  kind  of 
solemn  duty. 

One  such  moment  was  when  Mr.  Curphy,  my  father's 
advocate,  who  with  his  clammy  hands  always  made  me  think 
of  an  over-fatted  fish,  came  to  tell  him  that,  after  serious  legal 
difficulties,  the  civil  documents  had  been  agreed  to,  for,  after 
he  had  finished  with  my  father,  he  drew  me  aside  and  said, 
as  he  smoothed  his  long  brown  beard: 

"You  ought  to  be  a  happy  girl,  Mary.  I  suppose  you  know 
what  you  are  doing  for  your  father?  You  are  wiping  out  the 
greatest  disappointment  of  his  life,  and  rectifying  the  cruelty 
— the  inevitable  cruelty — of  the  law,  when  you  were  born  a 
daughter  after  he  had  expected  a  son." 

Another  such  moment  was  when  the  Bishop  came,  in  his 
grand  carriage,  to  say  that  after  much  discussion  he  had 
persuaded  his  lordship  to  sign  the  necessary  declaration  that 
all  the  children  of  our  union,  irrespective  of  sex,  should  be 
brought  up  as  Catholics,  for  taking  me  aside,  as  the  advocate 
had  done  the  day  before,  he  said,  in  his  suave  voice,  fingering 
his  jewelled  cross: 

"T  congratulate  yon,  my  child.  Yours  is  a  great  and 
precious  privilege — the  privilege  of  bringing  back  to  the 


110  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Church  a  family  which  has  been  estranged  from  it  for  nine- 
teen years. ' ' 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  we  signed  the  marriage  settlement. 
The  little  ceremony  took  place  in  the  drawing-room  of  my 
father's  house.  My  intended  husband,  who  had  not  been  to 
see  me  in  the  meantime,  brought  with  him  (as  well  as  his 
trustee  and  lawyer)  a  lady  and  a  gentleman. 

The  lady  was  his  maiden  aunt,  Lady  Margaret  Anslem,  a 
fair  woman  of  about  forty,  fashionably  dressed,  redolent  of 
perfume,  and  (except  to  me,  to  whom  she  talked  quite  amica- 
bly) rather  reserved  and  haughty,  as  if  the  marriage  of  her 
nephew  into  our  family  were  a  bitter  pill  which  she  had 
compelled  herself  to  swallow. 

The  gentleman  was  a  tall  young  man  wearing  a  very  high 
collar  and  cravat,  and  using  a  handkerchief  with  embroidered 
initials  in  the  corner  of  it.  He  turned  out  to  be  the  Hon. 
Edward  Eastcliff — the  great  friend  who,  being  rich  enough  to 
please  himself,  was  about  to  marry  the  professional  beauty. 

I  noticed  that  Aunt  Bridget,  with  something  of  the  instinct 
of  the  fly  about  the  flame,  immediately  fixed  herself  upon 
the  one,  and  that  Betsy  Beauty  attached  herself  to  the  other. 

Lord  Raa  himself  looked  as  tired  as  before,  and  for  the  first 
half-hour  he  behaved  as  if  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do 
with  himself  for  wretchedness  and  ennui. 

Then  the  deeds  were  opened  and  spread  out  on  a  table,  and 
though  the  gentlemen  seemed  to  be  trying  not  to  discuss  the 
contents  aloud  I  could  not  help  hearing  some  of  the  arrange- 
ments that  had  been  made  for  the  payment  of  my  intended 
husband's  debts,  and  certain  details  of  his  annual  allowance. 

Looking  back  upon  that  ugly  hour,  I  wonder  why,  under  the 
circumstances,  I  should  have  been  so  wounded,  but  I  remember 
that  a  sense  of  discomfort  amounting  to  shame  came  upon  me 
at  sight  of  the  sorry  bargaining.  It  seemed  to  have  so  little 
to  do  with  the  spiritual  union  of  souls,  which  I  had  been  taught 
to  think  marriage  should  be.  But  I  had  no  time  to  think  more 
about  that  before  my  father,  who  had  signed  the  documents 
himself  in  his  large,  heavy  hand,  was  saying  •. 

"Now,  gel,  come  along,  we're  waiting  for  your  signature." 

I  cannot  remember  that  I  read  anything.  I  cannot  remem- 
ber that  anything  was  read  to  me.  I  was  told  where  to  sign, 
and  I  signed,  thinking  what  must  be  must  be,  and  that  was  all 
I  had  to  do  with  the  matter. 

I  was  feeling  a  little  sick,  nevertheless,  and  standing  by  the 


MY  MARRIAGE  111 

fire  with  one  foot  on  the  fender,  when  Lord  Raa  came  up  to 
me  at  the  end,  and  said  in  his  drawling  voice : 

"So  it's  done." 

"Yes,  it's  done,"  I  answered 

After  a  moment  he  talked  of  where  we  were  to  live,  saying 
we  must  of  course  pass  most  of  our  time  in  London. 

"But  have  you  any  choice  about  the  honeymoon,"  he  said, 
"where  we  should  spend  it,  I  mean?" 

I  answered  that  he  would  know  best,  but  when  he  insisted 
on  my  choosing,  saying  it  was  my  right  to  do  so,  I  remembered 
that  during  my  time  in  the  Convent  the  one  country  in  the 
world  I  had  most  desired  to  see  was  the  Holy  Land. 

Never  as  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forget  the  look  in  his  lord- 
ship 's  grey  eyes  when  I  gave  this  as  my  selection. 

"You  mean  Jerusalem — Nazareth — the  Dead  Sea  and  all 
that?"  he  asked. 

I  felt  my  face  growing  red  as  at  a  frightful  faux  pas,  but 
his  lordship  only  laughed,  called  me  his  ' '  little  nun, ' '  and  said 
that  since  I  had  been  willing  to  leave  the  choice  to  him  he 
would  suggest  Egypt  and  Italy,  and  Berlin  and  Paris  on  the 
way  back,  with  the  condition  that  we  left  Elian  for  London 
on  the  day  of  our  marriage. 

After  the  party  from  Castle  Raa  had  gone,  leaving  some  of 
their  family  lace  and  pearls  behind  for  the  bride  to  wear  at 
her  wedding,  and  after  Aunt  Bridget  had  hoped  that  "that 
woman"  (meaning  Lady  Margaret)  didn't  intend  to  live  at 
the  Castle  after  my  marriage,  because  such  a  thing  would  not 
fit  in  with  her  plans  "at  all,  at  all,"  I  mentioned  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  honeymoon,  whereupon  Betsy  Beauty,  to  whom 
Italy  was  paradise,  and  London  glimmered  in  an  atmosphere 
of  vermillion  and  gold,  cried  out  as  usual : 

' '  What  a  lucky,  lucky  girl  you  are ! ' ' 

But  the  excitement  which  had  hitherto  buoyed  me  up 
was  partly  dispelled  by  this  time,  and  I  was  beginning  to  feel 
some  doubt  of  it. 

TWENTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

As  my  wedding-day  approached  and  time  ran  short,  the  air  of 
joy  which  had  pervaded  our  house  was  driven  out  by  an 
atmosphere  of  irritation.  We  were  all  living  on  our  nerves. 
The  smiles  that  used  to  be  at  everybody 's  service  gave  place  to 
frowns,  and,  in  Aunt  Bridget's  case,  to  angry  words  which 
were  distributed  on  all  sides  and  on  all  occasions. 


112  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

As  a  consequence  I  took  refuge  in  my  room,  and  sat  long 
hours  there  in  my  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  hearing  the 
hubbub  that  was  going  on  in  the  rest  of  the  house,  but  taking 
as  little  part  in  it  as  possible.  In  this  semi-conventual  silence 
and  solitude,  the  excitement  which  had  swept  me  along  for 
three  weeks  subsided  rapidly. 

I  began  to  think,  and  above  all  to  feel,  and  the  one  thing  I 
felt  beyond  everything  else  was  a  sense  of  something  wanting. 

I  remembered  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Pope  about  mar- 
riage as  a  mystic  relation,  a  sacred  union  of  souls,  a  bond  of 
love  such  as  Christ's  love  for  His  Church,  and  I  asked  myself 
if  I  felt  any  such  love  for  the  man  who  was  to  become  my 
husband. 

I  knew  I  did  not.  I  reminded  myself  that  I  had  had  nearly 
no  conversation  with  him,  that  our  intercourse  had  been  of 
the  briefest,  that  I  had  seen  him  only  three  times  altogether, 
and  that  I  scarcely  knew  him  at  all. 

And  yet  I  was  going  to  marry  him !  In  a  few  days  more  I 
should  be  his  wife,  and  we  should  be  bound  together  as  long  as 
life  should  last! 

Then  I  remembered  what  Father  Dan  had  said  about  a 
girl's  first  love,  her  first  love-letter,  and  all  the  sweet,  good 
things  that  should  come  to  her  at  the  time  of  her  marriage. 

None  of  them  had  come  to  me.  I  do  not  think  my  thoughts 
of  love  were  ever  disturbed  by  any  expectation  of  the  delights 
of  the  heart — languors  of  tenderness,  long  embraces,  sighs  and 
kisses,  and  the  joys  and  fevers  of  the  flesh — for  I  knew  nothing 
about  them.  But,  nevertheless,  I  asked  myself  if  I  had 
mistaken  the  matter  altogether.  Was  love  really  necessary? 
In  all  their  busy  preparations  neither  my  father,  nor  my 
husband,  nor  the  lawyers,  nor  the  Bishop  himself,  had  said 
anything  about  that. 

I  began  to  sleep  badly  and  to  dream.  It  was  always  the 
same  dream.  I  was  in  a  frozen  region  of  the  far  north  or 
south,  living  in  a  ship  which  was  stuck  fast  in  the  ice,  and  had 
a  great  frowning  barrier  before  it  that  was  full  of  dangerous 
crevasses.  Then  for  some  reason  I  wanted  to  write  a  letter, 
but  was  unable  to  do  so,  because  somebody  had  trodden  on 
my  pen  and  broken  it. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  now  as  I  look  back  upon  that  time, 
that  I  did  not  know  what  angel  was  troubling  the  waters  of  my 
soul — that  Nature  was  whispering  to  me,  as  it  whispers  to 
every  girl  at  the  first  great  crisis  of  her  life.  But  neither  did  I 


MY  MARRIAGE  113 

know  what  angel  was  leading  my  footsteps  when,  three  morn- 
ings before  my  wedding-day,  I  got  up  early  and  went  out  to 
walk  in  the  crisp  salt  air. 

Almost  without  thinking  I  turned  down  the  lane  that  led  to 
the  shore,  and  before  I  was  conscious  of  where  I  was  going,  I 
found  myself  near  Sunny  Lodge.  The  chimney  was  smoking 
for  breakfast,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  burning  turf  coming 
from  the  house,  which  was  so  pretty  and  unchanged,  with  the 
last  of  the  year's  roses  creeping  over  the  porch  and  round  the 
windows  of  the  room  in  which  I  had  slept  when  a  child. 

Somebody  was  digging  in  the  garden.  It  was  the  doctor  in 
his  shirt  sleeves. 

"Good  morning,  doctor,"  I  called,  speaking  over  the  fence. 

He  rested  on  his  spade  and  looked  up,  but  did  not  speak  for 
a  moment. 

' '  Don 't  you  know  who  I  am  ? "  I  asked. 

' '  Why  yes,  of  course ;  you  must  be     .     .     . " 

Without  finishing  he  turned  his  head  towards  the  porch 
and  cried : 

"Mother!    Mother!     Come  and  see  who's  here  at  last!" 

Martin's  mother  came  out  of  the  porch,  a  little  smaller,  I 
thought,  but  with  the  same  dear  womanly  face  over  her  light 
print  frock,  which  was  as  sweet  as  may-blossom. 

She  held  up  both  hands  at  sight  of  me  and  cried : 

"There,  now!  What  did  I  tell  you,  doctor!  Didn't  I  say 
they  might  marry  her  to  fifty  lords,  but  she  wouldn't  forget 
her  old  friends?" 

I  laughed,  the  doctor  laughed,  and  then  she  laughed,  and 
the  sweetest  part  of  it  was  that  she  did  not  know  what  we  were 
laughing  at. 

Then  I  opened  the  gate  and  stepped  up  and  held  out  my 
hand,  and  involuntarily  she  wiped  her  own  hand  (which  was 
covered  with  meal  from  the  porridge  she  was  making)  before 
taking  mine. 

"Goodness  me,  it's  Mary  O'Neill." 

"Yes,  it's  I." 

"But  let  me  have  a  right  look  at  you,"  she  said,  taking  me 
now  by  both  hands.  "They  were  saying  such  wonderful 
things  about  the  young  misthress  that  I  wasn't  willing  to 
believe  them.  But,  no,  no,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "they 
didn't  tell  me  the  half." 

I  was  still  laughing,  but  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  not 
to  cry,  so  I  said : 

H 


114  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"My  goodness  yes,  and  welcome,"  she  said,  and  calling  to 
the  doctor  to  wash  his  hands  and  follow  us,  she  led  the  way 
into  the  kitchen-parlour,  where  the  kettle  was  singing  from  the 
"slowery"  and  a  porridge-pot  was  bubbling  over  the  fire. 

' '  Sit  down.  Take  the  elbow-chair  in  the  chiollagh  [the  hearth 
place].  There!  That's  nice.  Aw,  yes,  you  know  the  house." 

Being  by  this  time  unable  to  speak  for  a  lump  in  my  throat 
that  was  hurting  me,  I  looked  round  the  room,  so  sweet,  so( 
homely,  so  closely  linked  with  tender  memories  of  my  child- 
hood, while  Martin's  mother  (herself  a  little  nervous  and  with 
a  touching  softness  in  her  face)  went  on  talking  while  she 
stirred  the  porridge  with  a  porridge-stick. 

"Well,  well!  To  think  of  all  the  years  since  you  came 
singing  carols  to  my  door!  You  remember  it,  don't  you? 
.  .  .  Of  course  you  do.  '  Doctor, '  T  said, '  don 't  talk  foolish. 
She'll  not  forget.  /  know  Mary  O'Neill.  She  may  be  going 
to  be  a  great  lady,  but  haven 't  I  nursed  her  on  my  knee  ? '  ' 

' '  Then  you  Ve  heard  what 's  to  happen  ? "  I  asked. 

"Aw  yes,  woman,  yes,"  she  answered  in  a  sadder  tone,  I 
thought.  "Everybody's  bound  to  hear  it — what  with  the 
bands  practising  for  the  procession,  and  the  bullocks  roasting 
for  the  poor,  and  the  fireworks  and  the  illuminations,  and  I 
don't  know  what." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  after  that,  and  then  in  her 
simple  way  she  said : 

'But  it's  all  as  one  if  you  love  the  man,  even  if  he  is  a  lord. " 

'You  think  that's  necessary,  don't  you?" 

'What,  mUlishf" 

'Love.    You  think  it's  necessary  to  love  one's  husband?" 

'Goodness  sakes,  girl,  yes.  If  you  don't  have  love,  what 
have  you?  What's  to  keep  the  pot  boiling  when  the  fire's 
getting  low  and  the  winter 's  coming  on,  maybe  ?  The  doctor 's 
telling  me  some  of  the  fine  ladies  in  London  are  marrying 
without  it — just  for  money  and  titles  and  all  to  that.  But  I 
can't  believe  it,  I  really  can't!  They've  got  their  troubles 
same  as  ourselves,  poor  things,  and  what's  the  use  of  their  fine 
clothes  and  grand  carriages  when  the  dark  days  come  and  the 
night's  falling  on  them?" 

It  was  harder  than  ever  to  speak  now,  so  I  got  up  to  look  at 
some  silver  cups  that  stood  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Martin's,"  said  his  mother,  to  whom  they  were  precious 
as  rubies.  "He  won  them  at  swimming  and  running  and 


MY  MARRIAGE  115 

leaping  and  climbing  and  all  to  that.  Aw,  yes,  yes !  He  was 
always  grand  at  games,  if  he  couldn't  learn  his  lessons,  poor 
boy.  And  now  he's  gone  away  from  us — looking  for  South 
Poles  somewheres. " 

"I  know — I  saw  him  in  Rome,"  said  I. 

She  dropped  her  porridge-stick  and  looked  at  me  with  big 
eyes. 

"Saw  him?  In  Rome,  you  say?  After  he  sailed,  you 
mean?" 

I  nodded,  and  then  she  cried  excitedly  to  the  doctor  who 
was  just  then  coming  into  the  house,  after  washing  his  hands 
under  the  pump. 

' '  Father,  she  saw  himself  in  Rome  after  he  sailed. ' ' 

There  was  only  one  himself  in  that  house,  therefore  it  was 
not  difficult  for  the  doctor  to  know  who  was  meant.  And  so 
great  was  the  eagerness  of  the  old  people  to  hear  the  last  news 
of  the  son  who  was  the  apple  of  their  eye  that  I  had  to  stay 
to  breakfast  and  tell  them  all  about  our  meeting. 

While  Martin's  mother  laid  the  table  with  oat-cake  and 
honey  and  bowls  of  milk  and  deep  plates  for  the  porridge,  I 
told  the  little  there  was  to  tell,  and  then  listened  to  their 
simple  comments. 

"There  now,  doctor!  Think  of  that!  Those  two  meeting 
in  foreign  parts  that  used  to  be  such  friends  when  they  were 
children !  Like  brother  and  sister,  you  might  say.  And  whiles 
and  whiles  we  were  thinking  that  some  day  .  .  .  but  well 
say  no  more  about  that  now,  doctor. ' ' 

"No,  well  say  no  more  about  that  now,  Christian  Ann," 
said  the  doctor. 

Then  there  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  it  was  just  as  if 
they  had  been  rummaging  among  half-forgotten  things  in  a 
dark  corner  of  their  house,  and  had  come  upon  a  cradle,  and 
the  child  that  had  lived  in  it  was  dead. 

It  was  sweet,  but  it  was  also  painful  to  stay  long  in  that 
house  of  love,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  eaten  my  oat-cake  and 
honey  I  got  up  to  go.  The  two  good  souls  saw  me  to  the  door, 
saying  I  was  not  to  expect  either  of  them  at  the  Big  House  on 
my  wedding-day,  because  she  was  no  woman  for  smart  clothes, 
and  the  doctor,  who  was  growing  rheumatic,  had  given  up 
his  night-calls,  and  therefore  his  gig,  so  as  to  keep  down 
expenses. 

"Well  be  at  the  church,  though,"  said  Martin's  mother. 


116  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

''And  if  we  don't  see  you  to  speak  to,  you'll  know  we're  there 
and  wishing  you  happiness  in  our  hearts." 

I  could  not  utter  a  word  when  I  left  them ;  but  after  I  had 
walked  a  little  way  I  looked  back,  intending  to  wave  my  fare- 
well, and  there  they  were  together  at  the  gate  still,  and  one 
of  her  hands  was  on  the  doctor's  shoulder — the  sweet  woman 
who  had  chosen  love  against  the  world,  and  did  not  regret  it, 
even  now  when  the  night  was  falling  on  her. 

I  had  to  pass  the  Presbytery  on  my  way  home,  and  as  I 
did  so,  I  saw  Father  Dan  in  his  study.  He  threw  up  the  win- 
dow sash  and  called  in  a  soft  voice,  asking  me  to  wait  until  he 
came  down  to  me. 

He  came  down  hurriedly,  just  as  he  was,  in  his  worn  and 
discoloured  cassock  and  biretta,  and  walked  up  the  road  by 
my  side,  breathing  rapidly  and  obviously  much  agitated. 

"The  Bishop  is  staying  with  me  over  the  wedding,  and  he 
is  in  such  a  fury  that  .  .  .  Don't  worry.  It  will  be  all 
right.  But  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"Did  you  see  young  Martin  Conrad  while  you  were  in 
Rome?" 

I  answered  that  I  did. 

"And  did  anything  pass  between  you  .  .  .  about  your 
marriage,  I  mean?" 

I  told  him  all  that  I  had  said  to  Martin,  and  all  that  Martin 
had  said  to  me. 

"Because  he  has  written  a  long  letter  to  the  Bishop  de- 
nouncing it,  and  calling  on  him  to  stop  it." 

"To  stop  it?" 

' '  That 's  so.  He  says  it  is  nothing  but  trade  and  barter,  and 
if  the  Church  is  willing  to  give  its  blessing  to  such  rank 
commercialism,  let  it  bless  the  Stock  Exchange,  let  it  sanctify 
the  slave  market." 

"Well?" 

"The  Bishop  threatens  to  tell  your  father.     'Who  is  this 

young  man, '  he  says,  '  who  dares  to     .    ,     . '  But  if  I  thought 

there  was  nothing  more  to  your  marriage  than     ...     If  1 

imagined  that  what  occurred  in  the  case  of  your  dear  mother 

.     But  that's  not  all." 

"Not  all?" 

"No.  Martin  has  written  to  me  too,  saying  worse — far 
worse. ' ' 

"What  does  he  say,  Father  Dan?" 


MY  MARRIAGE  117 

"I  don't  really  know  if  I  ought  to  tell  you,  I  really  don't. 
Yet  if  it 's  true  ...  if  there 's  anything  in  it  .  .  . " 

I  was  trembling,  but  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  what  Martin 
had  said.  He  told  me.  It  was  about  my  intended  husband — 
that  he  was  a  man  of  irregular  life,  a  notorious  loose  liver,  who 
kept  up  a  connection  with  somebody  in  London,  a  kind  of 
actress  who  was  practically  his  wife  already,  and  therefore  his 
marriage  with  me  would  be — so  Martin  had  said — nothing  but 
"legalised  and  sanctified  concubinage." 

With  many  breaks  and  pauses  my  dear  old  priest  told  me 
this  story,  as  if  it  were  something  so  infamous  that  his  simple 
and  innocent  heart  could  scarcely  credit  it. 

"If  I  really  thought  it  was  true,"  he  said,  "that  a  man 
living  such  a  life  could  come  here  to  marry  my  little  .  .  . 
But  no,  God  could  not  suffer  a  thing  like  that.  I  must  ask, 
though.  I  must  make  sure.  We  live  so  far  away  in  this  little 
island  that  .  .  .  But  I  must  go  back  now.  The  Bishop 
will  be  calling  for  me." 

Still  deeply  agitated,  Father  Dan  left  me  by  the  bridge,  and 
at  the  gate  of  our  drive  I  found  Tommy  the  Mate  on  a  ladder, 
covering,  with  flowers  from  the  conservatory,  a  triumphal  arch 
which  the  joiner  had  hammered  up  the  day  before. 

The  old  man  hardly  noticed  me  as  I  passed  through,  and 
this  prompted  me  to  look  up  and  speak  to  him. 

' '  Tommy, ' '  I  said,  ' '  do  you  know  you  are  the  only  one  who 
hasn  't  said  a  good  word  to  me  about  my  marriage  ? ' ' 

' '  Am  T,  missy  ? "  he  answered,  without  looking  down.  ' '  Then 
maybe  that's  because  I've  had  so  many  bad  ones  to  say  to 
other  people." 

I  asked  which  other  people. 

"Old  Johnny  Christopher,  for  one.  I  met  him  last  night 
at  the  'Horse  and  Saddle.'  'Grand  doings  at  the  Big  House, 
they're  telling  me,'  says  Johnny.  'I  won't  say  no,'  I  says. 
'  It  '11  be  a  proud  day  for  the  grand-daughter  of  Neill  the  Lord 
when  she's  mistress  of  Castle  Raa,'  says  Johnny.  'Maybe  so,' 
I  says,  'but  it  11  be  a  prouder  day  for  Castle  Raa  when  she 
sets  her  elane  little  foot  in  it.'  ' 

TWENTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

I  SHOULD  find  it  difficult  now,  after  all  that  has  happened 
since,  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  the  sense  of  shame  and 
personal  dishonour  which  was  produced  in  me  by  Father  Dan 's 


118  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

account  of  the  contents  of  Martin's  letter.  It  was  like  open- 
ing a  door  out  of  a  beautiful  garden  into  a  stagnant  ditch. 

That  Martin's  story  was  true  I  had  never  one  moment's 
doubt,  first  because  Martin  had  told  it,  and  next  because  it 
agreed  at  all  points  with  the  little  I  had  learned  of  Lord  Raa 
in  the  only  real  conversation  I  had  yet  had  with  him. 

Obviously  he  cared  for  the  other  woman,  and  if,  like  his 
friend  Eastcliff,  he  had  been  rich  enough  to  please  himself, 
he  would  have  married  her ;  but  being  in  debt,  and  therefore 
in  need  of  an  allowance,  he  was  marrying  me  in  return  for  my 
father's  money. 

It  was  shocking.  It  was  sinful.  I  could  not  believe  that 
my  father,  the  lawyers  and  the  Bishop  knew  anything  about  it. 

I  determined  to  tell  them,  but  how  to  do  so,  being  what  I 
was,  a  young  girl  out  of  a  convent,  I  did  not  know. 

Never  before  had  I  felt  so  deeply  the  need  of  my  mother. 
If  she  had  been  alive  I  should  have  gone  to  her,  and  with  my 
arms  about  her  neck  and  my  face  in  her  breast,  I  should  have 
told  her  all  my  trouble. 

There  was  nobody  but  Aunt  Bridget,  and  little  as  I  had 
ever  expected  to  go  to  her  under  any  circumstances,  with  many 
misgivings  and  after  much  hesitation  I  went. 

It  was  the  morning  before  the  day  of  my  marriage.  I 
followed  my  aunt  as  she  passed  through  the  house  like  a 
biting  March  wind,  scolding  everybody,  until  I  found  her  in 
her  own  room. 

She  was  ironing  her  new  white  cap,  and  as  I  entered  (look- 
ing pale,  I  suppose)  she  flopped  down  her  flat  iron  on  to  its 
stand  and  cried : 

"Goodness  me,  girl,  what's  amiss?  Caught  a  cold  with 
your  morning  walks,  eh?  Haven't  I  enough  on  my  hands 
without  that?  "We  must  send  for  the  doctor  straight.  We 
can 't  have  you  laid  up  now,  after  all  this  trouble  and  expense. ' ' 

"It  isn't  that,  Auntie. " 

"Then  in  the  name  of  goodness  what  is  it?" 

I  told  her,  as  well  as  I  could  for  the  cold  grey  eyes  that 
kept  looking  at  me  through  their  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 
At  first  my  aunt  listened  with  amazement,  and  then  she 
laughed  outright. 

"So  you've  heard  that  story,  have  you?  Mary  O'Neill," 
she  said,  with  a  thump  of  her  flat  iron,  "  I  'm  surprised  at  you. " 

I  asked  if  she  thought  it  wasn't  true. 


MY  MARRIAGE  119 

"How  do  I  know  if  it's  true?  And  what  do  I  care  whether 
it  is  or  isn't?  Young  men  will  be  young  men,  I  suppose." 

She  went  on  with  her  ironing  as  she  added: 

"Did  you  expect  you  were  marrying  a  virgin?  If  every 
woman  asked  for  that  there  would  be  a  nice  lot  of  old  maids 
in  the  world,  wouldn't  there?" 

I  felt  myself  flushing  up  to  the  forehead,  yet  I  managed 
to  say: 

' '  But  if  he  is  practically  married  to  the  other  woman.  ..." 

"Not  he  married.  Whoever  thinks  about  marriage  in 
company  like  that?  You  might  as  well  talk  about  marriage 
in  the  hen  coop." 

"But  all  the  same  if  he  cares  for  her,  Auntie.    .    .    ." 

"Who  says  he  cares  for  her?  And  if  he  does  he'll  settle 
her  off  and  get  rid  of  her  before  he  marries  you." 

"But  will  that  be  right?"  I  said,  whereupon  my  aunt 
rested  her  iron  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  said  something 
shameful. 

"Mary  O'Neill,  what  do  you  mean?  Of  course  it  will  be 
right.  He  shouldn't  have  two  women,  should  he?  Do  you 
think  the  man's  a  barn-door  rooster?" 

My  confusion  was  increasing,  but  I  said  that  in  any  case 
my  intended  husband  could  not  care  for  me,  or  he  would  have 
seen  more  of  me. 

"Oh,  you'll  see  enough  of  him  by  and  by.  Don't  you 
worry  about  that." 

I  said  I  was  not  sure  that  he  had  made  me  care  much  for 
him. 

"Time  enough  for  that,  too.  You  can't  expect  the  man 
to  work  miracles." 

Then,  with  what  courage  was  left  me,  I  tried  to  say  that 
I  had  been  taught  to  think  of  marriage  as  a  sacrament, 
instituted  by  the  Almighty  so  that  those  who  entered  it 
might  live  together  in  union,  peace  and  love,  whereas  .  .  . 

But  I  had  to  stop,  for  Aunt  Bridget,  who  had  been  looking 
at  me  with  her  hard  lip  curled,  said : 

"Tut!  That's  all  right  to  go  to  church  with  on  Sunday, 
but  on  weekdays  marriage  is  no  moonshine,  I  can  tell  you. 
It's  a  practical  matter.  Just  an  arrangement  for  making  a 
home,  and  getting  a  family,  and  bringing  up  children — 
that's  what  marriage  is,  if  you  ask  me." 

' '  But  don 't  you  think  love  is  necessary  ? ' ' 

"Depends  what  you  mean  by  love.     If  you  mean  what 


120  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

they  talk  about  in  poetry  and  songs — bleeding  hearts  and 
sighs  and  kisses  and  all  that  nonsense — no!"  said  my  aunt, 
with  a  heavy  bang  on  her  ironing. 

"That's  what  people  mean  when  they  talk  about  marrying 
for  love,  and  it  generally  ends  in  poverty  and  misery,  and 
sensible  women  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Look  at  me," 
she  said,  spitting  on  the  bottom  of  her  iron,  "do  you  think  I 
married  for  love  when  I  married  the  colonel?  No  indeed! 
'Here's  a  quiet  respectable  man  with  a  nice  income,'  I  said, 
'and  if  I  put  my  little  bit  to  his  little  bit  we'll  get  along 
comfortably  if  he  is  a  taste  in  years,'  I  said.  Look  at  your 
mother,  though.  She  was  one  of  the  marrying-for-love  kind, 
and  if  we  had  let  her  have  her  way  where  would  she  have  been 
afterwards  with  her  fifteen  years  as  an  invalid?  And  where 
would  you  have  been  by  this  time  ?  No, ' '  said  Aunt  Bridget, 
bringing  down  her  flat-iron  with  a  still  heavier  bang,  "a 
common-sense  marriage,  founded  on  suitability  of  position 
and  property,  and  all  that,  is  the  only  proper  sort  of  match. 
And  that's  what's  before  you  now,  girl,  so  for  goodness'  sake 
don't  go  about  like  the  parish  pan,  letting  every  busybody 
make  mischief  with  you.  My  Betsy  wouldn  't  if  she  had  your 
chance — I  can  tell  you  that  much,  my  lady." 

I  did  not  speak.  There  was  another  bang  or  two  of  the 
flat-iron,  and  then, 

"Besides,  love  will  come.  Of  course  it  will.  It  will 
come  in  time.  If  you  don't  exactly  love  your  husband  when 
you  marry  him  you'll  love  him  later  on.  A  wife  ought  to  teach 
herself  to  love  her  husband.  I  know  I  had  to,  and  if  ..." 

"But  if  she  can't,  Auntie?" 

' '  Then  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  and  say  nothing 
about  it." 

It  was  useless  to  say  more,  so  I  rose  to  go. 

"Yes,  go,"  said  Aunt  Bridget.  "I'm  so  bothered  with 
other  people's  business  that  my  head's  all  through-others. 
And,  Mary  O'Neill,"  she  said,  looking  after  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  door,  "for  mercy's  sake  do  brighten  up  a  bit, 
and  don't  look  as  if  marrying  a  husband  was  like  taking  a 
dose  of  jalap.  It  isn't  as  bad  as  that,  anyway." 

It  served  me  right.  I  should  have  known  better.  My 
aunt  and  I  spoke  different  languages;  we  stood  on  different 
ground. 

Returning  to  my  room  I  found  a  letter  from  Father  Dan. 
It  ran — 


MY  MAEEIAGE  121 

" 'Dear  Daughter  in  Jesus, 

"I  have  been  afraid  to  go  far  into  the  story  we  spoke 
about  from  fear  of  offending  my  Bishop,  but  I  have  inquired 
of  your  father  and  he  assures  me  that  there  is  not  a  word  of 
truth  in  it. 

"So  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that  our  good  Martin  must 
have  been  misinformed,  and  am  dismissing  the  matter  from 
my  mind.  Trusting  you  will  dismiss  it  from  your  mind  also, 

"Yours  in  Xt, 

"D.  D." 

TWENTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

I  COULD  not  do  as  Father  Dan  advised,  being  now  en- 
meshed in  the  threads  of  innumerable  impulses  unknown  to 
myself,  and  therefore  firmly  convinced  that  Martin's  story 
was  not  only  true,  but  a  part  of  the  whole  sordid  business 
whereby  a  husband  was  being  bought  for  me. 

With  this  thought  I  went  about  all  day,  asking  myself 
what  I  could  do  even  yet,  but  finding  no  answer  until  nine 
o'clock  at  night,  when,  immediately  after  supper  (we  lived 
country  fashion),  Aunt  Bridget  said: 

"Now  then,  off  to  bed,  girls.  Everybody  must  be  stirring 
early  in  the  morning." 

And  then  I  slipped  upstairs  to  my  room,  and  replied  to 
Father  Dan. 

Never  had  I  written  such  a  letteu  before.  I  poured  my 
whole  heart  on  to  the  paper,  saying  what  marriage  meant  to 
me,  as  the  Pope  himself  had  explained  it,  a  sacrament  imply- 
ing and  requiring  love  as  the  very  soul  of  it,  and  since  I  did 
not  feel  this  love  for  the  man  I  was  about  to  marry,  and  had 
no  grounds  for  thinking  he  felt  it  for  me,  and  being  sure  that 
other  reasons  had  operated  to  bring  us  together,  I  begged 
Father  Dan,  by  his  memory  of  my  mother,  and  his  affection 
for  me,  and  his  desire  to  see  me  good  and  happy,  to  intervene 
with  my  father  and  the  Bishop,  even  at  this  late  hour,  and 
at  the  church  door  itself  to  stop  the  ceremony. 

It  was  late  before  I  finished,  and  I  thought  the  household 
was  asleep,  but  just  as  I  was  coming  to  an  end  I  heard  my 
father  moving  in  the  room  below,  and  then  a  sudden  impulse 
came  to  me,  and  with  a  new  thought  I  went  downstairs  and 
knocked  at  his  door. 

"Who's  there?"  he  cried.     "Come  in." 

He  was  sitting  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  shaving  before  a  look- 


122  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

ing-glass  which  was  propped  up  against  two  ledgers.  The 
lather  on  his  upper  lip  gave  his  face  a  fierce  if  rather  gro- 
tesque expression. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  he  said.  "Sit  down.  Got  to  do  this 
to-night — goodness  knows  if  I'll  have  time  for  it  in  the 
morning. ' ' 

I  took  the  seat  in  the  ingle  which  Father  Dan  occupied  on 
the  night  of  my  birth.  The  fire  had  nearly  burnt  out. 

"Thought  you  were  in  bed  by  this  time.  Guess  I  should 
have  been  in  bed  myself  but  for  this  business.  Look  there" — 
he  pointed  with  the  handle  of  his  razor  to  the  table  littered 
with  papers — "that's  a  bit  of  what  I've  had  to  do  for  you. 
I  kind  o'  think  you  ought  to  be  grateful  to  your  father, 
my  gel." 

I  told  him  he  was  very  kind,  and  then,  very  nervously,  said : 

"But  are  you  sure  it's  quite  right,  sir?" 

Not  catching  my  meaning  he  laughed. 

"Right?"  he  said,  holding  the  point  of  his  nose  aside 
between  the  tips  of  his  left  thumb  and  first  finger.  "Guess 
it's  about  as  right  as  law  and  wax  can  make  it." 

"I  don't  mean  that,  sir.     I  mean      .    .    ." 

' '  What  ? "  he  said,  facing  round. 

Then  trembling  and  stammering  I  told  him.  I  did  not 
love  Lord  Raa.  Lord  Raa  did  not  love  me.  Therefore  I 
begged  him  for  my  sake,  for  his  sake,  for  everybody's  sake 
(I  think  I  said  for  my  mother's  sake  also)  to  postpone  our 
marriage. 

At  first  my  father  seemed  unable  to  believe  his  own  ears. 

"Postpone?  Now?  After  all  this  money  spent?  And 
everything  signed  and  sealed  and  witnessed ! ' ' 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,  because.    .    .    ." 

I  got  no  farther,  for  flinging  down  his  razor  my  father 
rose  in  a  towering  rage. 

"Are  you  mad?  Has  somebody  been  putting  the  evil  eye 
on  you?  The  greatest  match  this  island  has  ever  seen,  and 
you  say  postpone — put  if  off,  stop  it,  that's  what  you  mean. 
Do  you  want  to  make  a  fool  of  a  man?  At  the  last  moment, 
too.  Just  when  there's  nothing  left  but  to  go  to  the  High 
Bailiff  and  the  Church!  .  .  .  But  I  see — I  see  what  it  is. 
It's  that  young  Conrad — he's  been  writing  to  you." 

I  tried  to  say  no,  but  my  father  bore  me  down. 

"Don't  go  to  deny  it,  ma'am.  He  has  been  writing  to 
every  one — the  Bishop,  Father  Dan,  myself  even.  Denounc- 
ing the  marriage  if  you  plaze." 


MY  MARRIAGE  123 

My  father,  in  his  great  excitement,  was  breaking  with 
withering  scorn  into  his  native  speech. 

"Aw  yes,  though,  denouncing  and  damning  it,  they're 
telling  me!  Mighty  neighbourly  of  him,  I'm  sure!  Just  a 
neighbour  lad  without  a  penny  at  his  back  to  take  all  that 
throuble !  If  I  had  known  he  felt  like  that  about  it  I  might 
have  axed  his  consent!  The  imperence,  though!  The 
imperence  of  sin!  A  father  has  no  rights,  it  seems!  A 
daughter  is  a  separate  being,  and  all  to  that!  Well,  well! 
Amazing  thick,  isn't  it?" 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  heavy 
tread,  making  the  floor  shake. 

"Then  that  woman  in  Rome — I  wouldn't  trust  but  she 
has  been  putting  notions  into  your  head,  too.  All  the  new- 
fangled fooleries,  111  go  bail.  Women  and  men  equal,  not  a 
ha'p'orth  of  difference  between  them!  The  blatherskites!" 

I  was  silenced,  and  I  must  have  covered  my  face  and  cried, 
for  after  a  while  my  father  softened,  and  touching  my 
shoulder  he  asked  me  if  a  man  of  sixty-five  was  not  likely  to 
know  better  than  a  girl  of  nineteen  what  was  good  for  her, 
and  whether  I  supposed  he  had  not  satisfied  himself  that  this 
marriage  was  a  good  thing  for  me  and  for  him  and  for 
everybody. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  not  doing  my  best  for  you,  gel — my 
very  best?"  - 

I  must  have  made  some  kind  of  assent,  for  he  said : 

"Then  don't  moither  me  any  more,  and  don't  let  your 
Aunt  Bridget  moither  me — telling  me  and  telling  me  what  I 
might  have  done  for  her  own  daughter  instead." 

At  last,  with  a  kind  of  rough  tenderness,  he  took  me  by 
the  arm  and  raised  me  to  my  feet. 

"There,  there,  go  to  bed  and  get  some  sleep.  We'll  have 
to  start  off  for  the  High  Bailiff's  early  in  the  morning." 

My  will  was  broken  down.  I  could  resist  no  longer. 
Without  a  word  more  I  left  him. 

Returning  to  my  room  I  took  the  letter  I  had  been  writing 
to  Father  Dan  and  tore  it  up  piece  by  piece.  As  I  did  so  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  tearing  up  a  living  thing — something  of 
myself,  my  heart  and  all  that  was  contained  in  it. 

Then  I  threw  open  the  window  and  leant  out.  I  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  I  felt  as  if  it  were  calling  to  me, 
though  I  could  not  interpret  its  voice.  The  salt  air  was 
damp  and  it  refreshed  my  eyelids. 


124  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

At  length  I  got  into  bed,  shivering  with  cold.  When  I 
had  put  out  the  light  I  noticed  that  the  moon,  which  was  near 
the  full,  had  a  big  yellow  ring  of  luminous  vapour  around  it. 

THIRTIETH  CHAPTER 

MY  sleep  that  night  was  much  troubled  by  dreams.  It  was 
the  same  dream  as  before,  again  and  again  repeated — the 
dream  of  frozen  regions  and  of  the  great  ice  barrier,  and 
then  of  the  broken  pen. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  hazy  light  of  the  dawn  I  thought  of 
what  the  Pope  had  said  about  beginning  my  wedding-day  with 
penance  and  communion,  so  I  rose  at  once  to  go  to  church. 

The  dawn  was  broadening,  but  the  household  was  still 
asleep,  only  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  stirring  when  I 
stepped  through  a  side  door,  and  set  out  across  the  fields. 

The  dew  was  thick  on  the  grass,  and  under  the  gloom  of  a 
heavy  sky  the  day  looked  cold  and  cheerless.  A  wind  from 
the  south-east  had  risen  during  the  night,  the  sea  was  white 
with  breakers,  and  from  St.  Mary's  Rock  there  came  the  far- 
off  moaning  of  surging  waves. 

The  church,  too,  when  I  reached  it,  looked  empty  and  chill. 
The  sacristan  in  the  dim  choir  was  arranging  lilies  and  mar- 
guerites about  the  high  altar,  and  only  one  poor  woman,  with 
a  little  red  and  black  shawl  over  her  head  and  shoulders, 
was  kneeling  in  the  side  chapel  where  Father  Dan  was  saying 
Mass,  with  a  sleepy  little  boy  in  clogs  to  serve  him. 

The  woman  was  quite  young,  almost  as  young  as  myself, 
but  she  was  already  a  widow,  having  lately  lost  her  husband 
' '  at  the  herrings ' '  somewhere  up  by  Stornoway,  where  he  had 
gone  down  in  a  gale,  leaving  her  with  one  child,  a  year  old, 
and  another  soon  to  come. 

All  this  she  told  me  the  moment  I  knelt  near  her.  The 
poor  thing  seemed  to  think  I  ought  to  have  remembered  her, 
for  she  had  been  at  school  with  me  in  the  village. 

"I'm  Bella  Quark  that  was,"  she  whispered.  "I  married 
Willie  Shimmin  of  the  Lhen,  you  recollect.  It 's  only  a  month 
this  morning  since  he  was  lost,  but  it  seems  like  years  and 
years.  There  isn't  nothing  in  the  world  like  it." 

She  knew  about  my  marriage,  and  said  she  wished  me  joy, 
though  the  world  was  "so  dark  and  lonely  for  some."  Then 
she  said  something  about  her  "lil  Willie."  She  had  left  him 
asleep  in  her  cottage  on  the  Curragh,  and  he  might  awake  and 
cry  before  she  got  back,  so  she  hoped  Father  Dan  wouldn't 
keep  her  long. 


MY  MARRIAGE  125 

I  was  so  touched  by  the  poor  thing's  trouble  that  I  almost 
forgot  my  own,  and  creeping  up  to  her  side  I  put  my  arm 
through  hers  as  we  knelt  together,  and  that  was  how  the 
Father  found  us  when  he  turned  to  put  the  holy  wafer  on  our 
tongues. 

The  wind  must  have  risen  higher  while  I  was  in  the  church, 
for  when  I  was  returning  across  the  fields  it  lashed  my  skirts 
about  my  legs  so  that  I  could  scarcely  walk.  A  mist  had 
come  down  and  made  a  sort  of  monotonous  movement  in  the 
mountains  where  they  touched  the  vague  line  of  the  heavy  sky. 

I  should  be  afraid  to  say  that  Nature  was  still  trying  to 
speak  to  me  in  her  strange  inarticulate  voice,  but  I  cannot 
forget  that  a  flock  of  yearlings,  which  had  been  sheltering 
under  a  hedge,  followed  me  bleating  to  the  last  fence,  and 
that  the  moaning  of  the  sea  about  St.  Mary's  Rock  was  the 
last  sound  I  heard  as  I  re-entered  the  house. 

Everything  there  was  running  like  a  mill-race  by  this  time. 
The  servants  were  flying  to  and  fro,  my  cousins  were  calling 
downstairs  in  accents  of  alarm,  Aunt  Bridget  was  answering 
them  in  tones  of  vexation,  and  my  father  was  opening  doors 
with  a  heavy  push  and  closing  them  with  a  clash. 

They  were  all  so  suddenly  pacified  when  I  appeared  that 
it  flashed  upon  me  at  the  moment  that  they  must  have 
thought  I  had  run  away. 

"Goodness  gracious  me,  girl,  where  have  you  been?" 
said  Aunt  Bridget. 

I  told  her,  and  she  was  beginning  to  reproach  me  for  not 
ordering  round  the  carriage,  instead  of  making  my  boots  and 
stockings  damp  by  traipsing  across  the  grass,  when  my  father 
said: 

"That'll  do,  that'll  do!  Change  them  and  take  a  snack  of 
something.  I  guess  we  're  due  at  Holm  town  in  half  an  hour. ' ' 

I  ate  my  breakfast  standing,  the  car  was  brought  round, 
and  by  eight  o'clock  my  father  and  I  arrived  at  the  house  of 
the  High  Bailiff,  who  had  to  perform  the  civil  ceremony  of  my 
marriage  according  to  the  conditions  required  by  law. 

The  High  Bailiff  was  on  one  knee  before  the  fire  in  his 
office,  holding  a  newspaper  in  front  of  it  to  make  it  burn. 

"Nobody  else  here  yet?"  asked  my  father. 

"Traa  dy  liooar"  (time  enough),  the  High  Bailiff  muttered. 

He  was  an  elderly  man  of  intemperate  habits  who  spent  his 
nights  at  the  "Crown  and  Mitre,"  and  was  apparently  out  of 
humour  at  having  been  brought  out  of  bed  so  early. 


126  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

His  office  was  a  room  of  his  private  house.  It  had  a  high 
desk,  a  stool  and  a  revolving  chair.  Placards  were  pinned 
on  the  walls,  one  over  another,  and  a,  Testament,  with  the 
binding  much  worn,  lay  on  a  table.  The  place  looked  half 
like  a  doctor's  consulting  room,  and  half  like  a  small  police 
court. 

Presently  Mr.  Curphy,  my  father's  advocate,  came  in, 
rather  irritatingly  cheerful  in  that  chill  atmosphere,  and,  half 
an  hour  late,  my  intended  husband  arrived,  with  his  London 
lawyer  and  his  friend  Easteliff. 

My  mind  was  far  from  clear  and  I  had  a  sense  of  seeing 
things  by  flashes  only,  but  I  remember  that  I  thought  Lord 
Raa  was  very  nervous,  and  it  even  occurred  to  me  that  early 
as  it  was  he  had  been  drinking. 

' '  Beastly  nuisance,  isn  't  it  ? "  he  said  to  me  aside,  and  then 
there  was  something  about  ' '  this  legal  fuss  and  f uddlement. ' ' 

With  the  air  of  a  man  with  a  grievance  the  High  Bailiff 
took  a  big  book  out  of  the  desk,  and  a  smaller  one  off  a  shelf, 
and  then  we  sat  in  a  half  circle,  and  the  ceremony  began. 

It  was  very  brief  and  cold  like  a  matter  of  business.  As 
far  as  I  can  remember  it  consisted  of  two  declarations  which 
Lord  Raa  and  I  made  first  to  the  witnesses  present  and  after- 
wards to  each  other.  One  of  them  stated  that  we  knew  of  no 
lawful  impediment  why  we  should  not  be  joined  together  in 
matrimony,  and  the  other  declared  that  we  were  there  and 
then  so  joined. 

I  remember  that  I  repeated  the  words  automatically,  as 
the  High  Bailiff  in  his  thick  alcoholic  voice  read  them  out  of 
the  smaller  of  his  books,  and  that  Lord  Raa,  in  tones  of 
obvious  impatience,  did  the  same. 

Then  the  High  Bailiff  opened  the  bigger  of  his  books,  and 
after  writing  something  in  it  himself  he  asked  Lord  Raa  to 
sign  his  name,  and  this  being  done  he  asked  me  also. 

"Am  I  to  sign,  too?"  I  asked,  vacantly. 

"Well,  who  else  do  you  think?"  said  Mr.  Curphy  with  a 
laugh.  "Betsy  Beauty  perhaps,  eh?" 

"Come,  gel,  come,"  said  my  father,  sharply,  and  then  I 
signed. 

I  had  no  longer  any  will  of  my  own.  In  this  as  in  every- 
thing I  did  whatever  was  asked  of  me. 

It  was  all  as  dreary  and  lifeless  as  an  empty  house.  I  can 
remember  that  it  made  no  sensible  impression  upon  my  heart. 
My  father  gave  some  money  (a  few  shillings  I  think)  to  the 


MY  MARRIAGE  127 

High  Bailiff,  who  then  tore  a  piece  of  perforated  blue  paper 
out  of  the  bigger  of  his  books  and  offered  it  to  me,  saying : 

"This  belongs  to  you." 

"To  me?"  I  said. 

"Who  else?"  said  Mr.  Curphy,  who  was  laughing  again, 
and  then  something  was  said  by  somebody  about  marriage 
lines  and  no  one  knowing  when  a  wise  woman  might  not 
want  to  use  them. 

The  civil  ceremony  of  my  marriage  was  now  over,  and  Lord 
Raa,  who  had  been  very  restless,  rose  to  his  feet,  saying: 

"Beastly  early  drive.  Anything  in  the  house  to  steady 
one's  nerves,  High  Bailiff?" 

The  High  Bailiff  made  some  reply,  at  which  the  men 
laughed,  all  except  my  father.  Then  they  left  me  and  went 
into  another  room,  the  dining-room,  and  I  heard  the  jingling 
of  glasses  and  the  drinking  of  healths  while  I  sat  before  the 
fire  with  my  foot  on  the  fender  and  my  marriage  lines  in  my 
hand. 

My  brain  was  still  numbed,  I  felt  as  one  might  feel  if 
drowned  in  the  sea  and  descending,  without  quite  losing 
consciousness,  to  the  depths  of  its  abyss. 

I  remember  I  thought  that  what  I  had  just  gone  through 
differed  in  no  respect  from  the  signing  of  my  marriage  settle- 
ment, except  that  in  the  one  case  I  had  given  my  husband 
rights  over  my  money,  my  father's  money,  whereas  in  this 
case  I  seemed  to  have  given  him  rights  over  myself. 

Otherwise  it  was  all  so  cold,  so  drear,  so  dead,  so  unaffecting. 

The  blue  paper  had  slipped  out  of  my  hand  on  to  the  worn 
hearthrug  when  my  helpless  meditations  were  interrupted  by 
the  thrumming  and  throbbing  of  the  motor-ear  outside,  and 
by  my  father,  who  was  at  the  office  door,  saying  in  his  loud, 
commanding  voice: 

"Come,  gel,  guess  it's  tune  for  you  to  be  back." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  I  was  in  my  own  room  at  home, 
and  given  over  to  the  dressmakers.  I  was  still  being  moved 
automatically — a  creature  without  strength  or  will. 

THIRTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

I  HAVE  only  an  indefinite  memory  of  floating  vaguely  through 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  next  two  hours — of  everybody 
except  myself  being  wildly  excited;  of  my  cousins  calling 
repeatedly  from  unseen  regions  of  the  house ;  of  Aunt  Bridget 
scolding  indiscriminately ;  of  the  dressmakers  chattering  with- 


128  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

out  ceasing  as  they  fitted  on  my  wedding  dress;  of  their 
standing  off  from  me  at  intervals  with  cries  of  delight  at  the 
success  of  their  efforts;  of  the  wind  roaring  in  the  chimney; 
of  the  church-bells  ringing  in  the  distance;  of  the  ever- 
increasing  moaning  of  the  sea  about  St.  Mary's  Bock;  and 
finally  of  the  rumbling  of  the  rubber  wheels  of  several  car- 
riages and  the  plash  of  horses '  hoofs  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive. 

When  the  dressmakers  were  done  with  me  I  was  wearing  an 
ivory  satin  dress,  embroidered  in  silver,  with  a  coronal  of 
myrtle  and  orange  blossoms  under  the  old  Limerick  lace  of 
the  family  veil,  as  well  as  a  string  of  pearls  and  one  big 
diamond  of  the  noble  house  I  was  marrying  into.  I  remember 
they  said  my  black  hair  shone  with  a  blue  lustre  against  the 
sparkling  gem,  and  I  dare  say  I  looked  gay  on  the  outside 
anyway. 

At  last  I  heard  a  fluttering  of  silk  outside  my  room,  and  a 
running  stream  of  chatter  going  down  the  stairs,  followed  by 
the  banging  of  carriage  doors,  and  then  my  father's  deep 
voice,  saying: 

"Bride  ready?    Good!     Time  to  go,  I  guess," 

He  alone  had  made  no  effort  to  dress  himself  up,  for  he  was 
still  wearing  his  every-day  serge  and  his  usual  heavy  boots. 
There  was  not  even  a  flower  in  his  button-hole. 

We  did  not  speak  very  much  on  our  way  to  church,  but  I 
found  a  certain  comfort  in  his  big  warm  presence  as  we  sat 
together  in  the  carriage  with  the  windows  shut,  for  the  rising 
storm  was  beginning  to  frighten  me. 

"It  will  be  nothing,"  said  my  father.  "Just  a  puff  of 
wind  and  a  slant  of  rain  maybe." 

The  little  church  was  thronged  with  people.  Even  the 
galleries  were  full  of  the  children  from  the  village  school. 
There  was  a  twittering  overhead  like  that  of  young  birds  in  a 
tree,  and  as  I  walked  up  the  nave  on  my  father's  arm  I  could 
not  help  but  hear  over  the  sound  of  the  organ  the  whispered 
words  of  the  people  in  the  pews  on  either  side  of  us. 

"Dear  heart  alive,  the  straight  like  her  mother  she  is, 
bless  her!" 

"Goodness  yes,  it's  the  poor  misfortunate  mother  come  to 
life  again." 

"  'Deed,  but  the  daughter's  in  luck,  though," 

Lord  Raa  was  waiting  for  me  by  the  communion  rail.  He 
looked  yet  more  nervous  than  in  the  morning,  and,  though 
he  was  trying  to  bear  himself  with  his  usual  composure,  there 


MY  MARRIAGE  129 

was  (or  I  thought  there  was)  a  certain  expression  of  fear  in 
his  face  which  I  had  never  seen  before. 

His  friend  and  witness,  Mr.  Eastcliff,  wearing  a  carnation 
button-hole,  was  by  his  side,  and  his  aunt,  Lady  Margaret, 
carrying  a  sheaf  of  beautiful  white  flowers,  was  standing 
near. 

My  own  witnesses  and  bridesmaids,  Betsy  Beauty  and  Nessy 
MacLeod,  in  large  hats,  with  soaring  black  feathers,  were 
behind  me.  I  could  hear  the  rustle  of  their  rose-coloured 
skirts  and  the  indistinct  buzz  of  their  whispered  conversa- 
tion, as  well  as  the  more  audible  reproofs  of  Aunt  Bridget, 
who  in  a  crinkly  black  silk  dress  and  a  bonnet  like  a  half 
moon,  was  telling  them  to  be  silent  and  to  look  placid. 

At  the  next  moment  I  was  conscious  that  a  bell  had  been 
rung  in  the  chancel;  that  the  organ  had  stopped;  that  the 
coughing  and  hemming  in  the  church  had  ceased;  that  some- 
body was  saying  "Stand  here,  my  lord";  that  Lord  Raa, 
with  a  nervous  laugh,  was  asking  ' '  Here  ? ' '  and  taking  a  place 
by  my  side ;  that  the  lighted  altar,  laden  with  flowers,  was  in 
front  of  me ;  and  that  the  Bishop  in  his  vestments,  Father  Dan 
in  his  surplice  and  white  stole,  and  a  clerk  carrying  a  book 
and  a  vessel  of  holy  water  were  beginning  the  service. 

Surely  never  was  there  a  sadder  ceremony.  Never  did  any 
girl  under  similar  circumstances  feel  a  more  vivid  presenti- 
ment of  the  pains  and  penalties  that  follow  on  a  forced  and 
ill-assorted  marriage.  And  yet  there  came  to  me  in  the  course 
of  the  service  such  a  startling  change  of  thought  as  wiped  out 
for  a  while  all  my  sadness,  made  me  forget  the  compulsion  that 
had  been  put  upon  me,  and  lifted  me  into  a  realm  of  spiritual 
ecstasy. 

The  Bishop  began  with  a  short  litany  which  asked  God's 
blessing  on  the  ceremony  which  was  to  join  together  two  of 
His  children  in  the  bonds  of  holy  wedlock.  While  that  was 
going  on  I  was  conscious  of  nothing  except  the  howling  of  the 
wind  about  the  church  windows  and  the  far-off  tolling  of  the 
bell  on  St.  Mary's  Rock — nothing  but  this  and  a  voice  within 
me  which  seemed  to  say  again  and  again,  ' '  I  don 't  love  him ! 
I  don't  love  him!" 

But  hardly  had  the  actual  ceremony  commenced  when  I 
began  to  be  overawed  by  the  solemnity  and  divine  power  of  the 
service,  and  by  the  sense  of  God  leaning  over  my  littleness 
and  guiding  me  according  to  His  will. 

What  did  it  matter  how  unworthy  were  the  preparations 

I 


130  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

that  had  led  up  to  this  marriage  if  God  was  making  it  ?  God 
makes  all  marriages  that  are  blessed  by  His  Church,  and 
therefore  He  overrules  to  His  own  good  ends  all  human  im- 
pulses, however  sordid  or  selfish  they  may  be. 

After  that  thought  came  to  me  nothing  else  seemed  to 
matter,  and  nothing,  however  jarring  or  incongruous,  was 
able  to  lower  the  exaltation  of  my  spirit. 

But  the  service,  which  had  this  effect  upon  me,  appeared 
to  have  an  exactly  opposite  effect  on  Lord  Raa.  His  nervous- 
ness increased  visibly,  though  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  it 
by  a  lightness  of  manner  that  sometimes  looked  like  derision. 

Thus  when  the  Bishop  stepped  down  to  us  and  said : 

"James  Charles  Munster,  wilt  thou  take  Mary  here  present 
for  thy  lawful  wife,  according  to  the  rite  of  our  holy  Mother 
the  Church, ' '  my  husband  halted  and  stammered  over  his  an- 
swer, saying  beneath  his  breath,  ' '  I  thought  I  was  a  heretic. ' ' 

But  when  the  corresponding  question  was  put  to  me,  and 
Father  Dan  thinking  I  must  be  nervous,  leaned  over  me  and 
whispered,  "Don't  worry,  child,  take  your  time,"  I  replied 
in  a  loud,  clear,  unfaltering  voice: 

"I  will." 

And  again,  when  my  husband  had  to  put  the  ring  and  the 
gold  and  silver  on  the  salver  (he  fumbled  and  dropped  them 
as  he  did  so,  and  fumbled  and  dropped  them  a  second  time 
when  he  had  to  take  them  up  after  they  had  been  blessed, 
laughing  too  audibly  at  his  own  awkwardness),  and  then 
repeat  after  the  Bishop: 

' '  With  this  ring  .1  thee  wed ;  this  gold  and  silver  I  thee 
give ;  with  my  body  I  thee  worship ;  and  with  all  my  worldly 
goods  I  thee  endow,"  he  tendered  the  ring  slowly  and  with 
an  obvious  effort. 

But  I  took  it  without  trembling,  because  I  was  thinking 
that,  in  spite  of  all  I  had  heard  of  his  ways  of  life,  this  solemn 
and  sacred  sacrament  made  him  mine  and  no  one  else's. 

It  is  all  very  mysterious;  I  cannot  account  for  it;  I  only 
know  it  was  so,  and  that,  everything  considered,  it  was 
perhaps  the  strangest  fact  of  all  my  life. 

I  remember  that  more  than  once  during  the  ceremony 
Father  Dan  spoke  to  me  softly  and  caressingly,  as  if  to  a 
child,  but  I  felt  no  need  of  his  comforting,  for  my  strength 
was  from  a  higher  source. 

I  also  remember  that  it  was  afterwards  said  that  all  through 
the  ceremony  the  eyes  of  the  newly-wedded  couple  seemed 


MY  MARRIAGE  131 

sedulously  to  shun  each  other,  but  if  I  did  not  look  at  my 
husband  it  was  because  my  marriage  was  like  a  prayer  to  me, 
carrying  me  back,  with  its  sense  of  purity  and  sanctity,  to 
the  little  sunlit  church  in  Rome  where  Mildred  Bankes  had 
taken  her  vows. 

After  the  marriage  service  there  was  Nuptial  Mass  and 
Benediction  (special  dispensation  from  Rome),  and  that 
raised  to  a  still  higher  pitch  the  spiritual  exaltation  which 
sustained  me. 

Father  Dan  read  the  Epistle  beginning  "Let  wives  be 
subject  to  their  husbands,"  and  then  the  Bishop  read  the 
Gospel,  concluding,  "Therefore  now  they  are  not  two,  but 
one  flesh:  what  therefore  God  hath  joined  together,  let  not 
man  put  asunder. ' ' 

I  had  trembled  when  I  thought  of  these  solemn  and  sonor- 
ous words  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  room,  but  now  that  they 
were  spoken  before  the  congregation  I  had  no  fear,  no  mis- 
giving, nothing  but  a  sense  of  rapture  and  consecration. 

The  last  words  being  spoken  and  Lord  Raa  and  I  being 
man  and  wife,  we  stepped  into  the  sacristy  to  sign  the  register, 
and  not  even  there  did  my  spirit  fail  me.  I  took  up  the  pen 
and  signed  my  name  without  a  tremor.  But  hardly  had  I 
done  so  when  I  heard  a  rumbling  murmur  of  voices  about  me — 
first  the  Bishop's  voice  (in  such  a  worldly  tone)  and  then  my 
father's  and  then  my  husband's,  and  then  the  voices  of  many 
others,  in  light  conversation  mingled  with  trills  of  laughter. 
And  then,  in  a  moment,  in  a  twinkling,  as  fast  as  a  snowflake 
melts  upon  a  stream,  the  spell  of  the  marriage  service  seemed 
to  break. 

I  have  heard  since  that  my  eyes  were  wet  at  that  moment 
and  I  seemed  to  have  been  crying  all  through  the  ceremony. 
I  know  nothing  about  that,  but  I  do  know  that  I  felt  a  kind 
of  internal  shudder  and  that  it  was  just  as  if  my  soul  had 
suddenly  awakened  from  an  intoxicating  drug. 

The  organ  began  to  play  the  Wedding  March,  and  my 
husband,  putting  my  arm  through  his,  said,  ' '  Come. 

There  was  much  audible  whispering  among  the  people  wait- 
ing for  us  in  the  church,  and  as  we  walked  towards  the  door 
I  saw  ghostly  faces  smiling  at  me  on  every  side,  and  heard 
ghostly  voices  speaking  in  whispers  that  were  like  the  back- 
ward plash  of  wavelets  on  the  shore. 

"Sakes   alive,   how   white's   she's  looking,   though,"   said 


132  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

somebody,  and  then  somebody  else  said — I  could  not  help 
but  hear  it — 

' '  Dear  heart  knows  if  her  father  has  done  right  for  all  that. ' ' 

I  did  not  look  at  anybody,  but  I  saw  Martin's  mother  at 
the  back,  and  she  was  wiping  her  eyes  and  saying  to  some  one 
by  her  side — it  must  have  been  the  doctor — 

"God  bless  her  for  the  sweet  child  veen  she  always  was, 
anj^way. ' ' 

The  storm  had  increased  during  the  service ;  and  the  sacris- 
tan, who  was  opening  the  door  for  us,  had  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  hold  it  against  the  wind,  which  came  with  such  a 
rush  upon  us  when  we  stepped  into  the  porch  that  my  veil 
and  the  coronal  of  myrtle  and  orange  blossoms  were  torn  off 
my  head  and  blown  back  into  the  church. 

"God  bless  my  sowl,"  said  somebody — it  was  Tommy's 
friend,  Johnny  Christopher — "there's  some  ones  would  be 
sailing  that  bad  luck,  though." 

A  band  of  village  musicians,  who  were  ranged  up  in  the 
road,  struck  up  "The  Black  and  Grey"  as  we  stepped  out  of 
the  churchyard,  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  was  that  my 
husband  and  I  were  in  the  carriage  going  home. 

He  had  so  far  recovered  from  the  frightening  effects  of 
the  marriage  service  that  he  was  making  light  of  it,  and 
saying : 

"When  will  this  mummery  come  to  an  end,  I  wonder?" 

The  windows  of  the  carriage  were  rattling  with  the  wind, 
and  my  husband  had  begun  to  talk  of  the  storm  when  we  came 
upon  the  trunk  of  a  young  tree  which  had.  been  torn  up  by 
the  roots  and  was  lying  across  the  road,  so  that  our  coachman 
had  to  get  down  and  remove  it. 

"Beastly  bad  crossing,  I'm  afraid.  Hope  you're  a  good 
sailor.  Must  be  in  London  to-morrow  morning,  you  know." 

The  band  was  playing  behind  us.  The  leafless  trees  were 
beating  their  bare  boughs  in  front.  The  wedding  bells  were 
pealing.  The  storm  was  thundering  through  the  running 
sky.  The  sea  was  very  loud. 

At  my  father's  gate  Tommy  the  Mate,  with  a  serious  face, 
was  standing,  cap  in  hand,  under  his  triumphal  arch,  which 
(as  well  as  it  could  for  the  wind  that  was  tearing  its  flowers 
and  scattering  them  on  the  ground)  spelled  out  the  words 
"God  bless  the  Happy  Bride." 

When  we  reached  the  open  door  of  the  house  a  group  of 


MY  MARRIAGE  133 

maids  were  waiting  for  us.  They  were  holding  on  to  their 
white  caps  and  trying  to  control  their  aprons,  which  were 
swirling  about  their  black  frocks.  As  I  stepped  out  of  the 
carriage  they  addressed  me  as  "My  lady"  and  "Your  lady- 
ship. ' '  The  seagulls,  driven  up  from  the  sea,  were  screaming 
about  the  house. 

My  husband  and  I  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  as  we 
stood  together  on  the  hearthrug  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face 
in  the  glass  over  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  deadly  white,  and 
had  big  staring  eyes  and  a  look  of  faded  sunshine.  I  fixed 
afresh  the  pearls  about  my  neck  and  the  diamond  in  my  hair, 
which  was  much  disordered. 

Almost  immediately  the  other  carriages  returned,  and  rela- 
tives and  guests  began  to  pour  into  the  room  and  offer  us 
their  congratulations.  First  came  my  cousins,  who  were 
too  much  troubled  about  their  own  bedraggled  appearance 
to  pay  much  attention  to  mine.  Then  Aunt  Bridget,  holding 
on  to  her  half -moon  bonnet  and  crying: 

"You  happy,  happy  child!  But  what  a  wind!  There's 
been  nothing  like  it  since  the  day  you  were  born." 

My  father  came  next,  like  a  gale  of  wind  himself,  saying: 

"I'm  proud  of  you,  gel.  Right  proud  I  am.  You  done 
well." 

Then  came  Lady  Margaret,  who  kissed  me  without  saying 
many  words,  and  finally  a  large  and  varied  company  of  gaily- 
dressed  friends  and  neighbours,  chiefly  the  "aristocracy" 
of  our  island,  who  lavished  many  unnecessary  "ladyships" 
upon  me,  as  if  the  great  name  reflected  a  certain  glory  upon 
themselves. 

I  remember  that  as  I  stood  on  the  hearthrug  with  my  hus- 
band, receiving  their  rather  crude  compliments,  a  vague  gaiety 
came  over  me,  and  I  smiled  and  laughed,  although  my  heart 
was  growing  sick,  for  the  effect  of  the  wedding-service  was 
ebbing  away  into  a  cold  darkness  like  that  of  a  night  tide 
when  the  moonlight  has  left  it. 

It  did  not  comfort  me  that  my  husband,  without  failing 
in  good  manners,  was  taking  the  whole  scene  and  company 
with  a  certain  scarcely-veiled  contempt  which  I  could  not  help 
but  see. 

And  neither  did  it  allay  my  uneasiness  to  glance  at  my 
father,  where  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room,  watching,  with 
a  look  of  triumph  in  his  glistening  black  eyes,  his  proud 
guests  coming  up  to  me  one  by  one,  and  seeming  to  say  to 


134  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

himself,  "They're  here  at  last!  I've  bet  them!  Yes,  by 
gough,  I've  bet  them!" 

Many  a  time  since  I  have  wondered  if  his  conscience  did 
not  stir  within  him  as  he  looked  across  at  his  daughter  in  the 
jewels  of  the  noble  house  he  had  married  her  into — the  pale 
bride  with  the  bridegroom  he  had  bought  for  her — and  thought 
of  the  mockery  of  a  sacred  union  which  he  had  brought  about 
to  gratify  his  pride,  his  vanity,  perhaps  his  revenge. 

But  it  was  all  over  now.  I  was  married  to  Lord  Raa.  In 
the  eyes  equally  of  the  law,  the  world  and  the  Church,  the 
knot  between  us  was  irrevocably  tied. 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

I  am  no  mystic  and  no  spiritualist,  and  I  only  mention 
it  as  one  of  the  mysteries  of  human  sympathy  between 
far-distant  friends,  that  during  a  part  of  the  time  when 
my  dear  one  was  going  through  the  fierce  struggle  she 
describes,  and  was  dreaming  of  frozen  regions  and  a  broken 
pen,  the  ship  I  sailed  on  had  got  itself  stuck  fast  in  a 
field  of  pack  ice  in  latitude  76,  under  the  ice  barrier  by 
Charcot  Bay,  and  that  while  we  were  lying  like  helpless 
logs,  cut  off  from  communication  with  the  world,  unable  to 
do  anything  but  groan  and  swear  and  kick  our  heels  in  our 
bunks  at  every  fresh  grinding  of  our  crunching  sides,  my 
own  mind,  sleeping  and  waking,  was  for  ever  swinging 
back,  with  a  sort  of  yearning  prayer  to  my  darling  not  to 
yield  to  the  pressure  which  I  felt  so  damnably  sure  was 
being  brought  to  bear  on  her. 

M.  C. 


THIRD  PART 
MY  HONEYMOON 

THIRTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

WHEN  the  Bishop  and  Father  Dan  arrived,  the  bell  was  rung 
and  we  went  in  to  breakfast. 

We  breakfasted  in  the  new  dining-room,  which  was  now 
finished  and  being  used  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  a  gorgeous  chamber  beblazoned  with  large  candel- 
abra, huge  mirrors,  and  pictures  in  gold  frames — resembling 
the  room  it  was  intended  to  imitate,  yet  not  resembling  it, 
as  a  woman  over-dressed  resembles  a  well-dressed  woman. 

My  father  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table  with  the  Bishop, 
Lady  Margaret  and  Aunt  Bridget  on  his  right,  and  myself, 
my  husband,  Betsy  Beauty  and  Mr.  Eastcliff  on  his  left.  The 
lawyers  and  the  trustee  were  midway  down,  Father  Dan 
with  Nessy  MacLeod  was  at  the  end,  and  a  large  company 
of  our  friends  and  neighbours,  wearing  highly-coloured 
flowers  on  their  breasts  and  in  their  buttonholes,  sat 
between. 

The  meal  was  very  long,  and  much  of  the  food  was  very 
large — large  fish,  large  roasts  of  venison,  veal,  beef  and  mut- 
ton, large  puddings  and  large  cheeses,  all  cut  on  the  table 
and  served  by  waiters  from  Blackwater.  There  were  two 
long  black  lines  of  them — a  waiter  behind  the  chair  of  nearly 
every  other  guest. 

All  through  the  breakfast  the  storm  raged  outside.  More 
than  once  it  drowned  the  voices  of  the  people  at  the  table, 
roaring  like  a  wild  beast  in  the  great  throat  of  the  wide 
chimney,  swirling  about  the  lantern  light,  licking  and  lashing 
and  leaping  at  the  outsides  of  the  walls  like  lofty  waves 
breaking  against  a  breakwater,  and  sending  up  a  thunderous 
noise  from  the  sea  itself,  where  the  big  bell  of  St.  Mary's 
Rock  was  still  tolling  like  a  knell. 

Somebody — it  must  have  been  Aunt  Bridget  again — said 
there  had  been  nothing  like  it  since  the  day  of  my  birth,  and 
it  must  be  "fate." 

"Chut,  woman!"  said  my  father.  "We're  living  in  the 

135 


136  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

twentieth  century.  Who's  houlding  with  such  ould  wife's 
wonders  now?" 

He  was  intensely  excited,  and,  his  excitement  betrayed 
itself,  as  usual,  in  reversion  to  his  native  speech.  Sometimes 
he  surveyed  in  silence,  with  the  old  masterful  lift  of  his 
eyebrows,  his  magnificent  room  and  the  great  guests  who 
were  gathered  within  it ;  sometimes  he  whispered  to  the  waiters 
to  be  smarter  with  the  serving  of  the  dishes;  and  sometimes 
he  pitched  his  voice  above  the  noises  within  and  without  and 
shouted,  in  country-fashion,  to  his  friends  at  various  points 
of  the  table  to  know  how  they  were  faring. 

"How  are  you  doing,  Mr.  Curphy,  sir?" 

' '  Doing  well,  sir.  Are  you  doing  well  yourself,  Mr.  0  *Neill, 
sir?" 

' '  Lord-a-massy  yes,  sir.    I  'm  always  doing  well,  sir. ' ' 

Never  had  anybody  in  Elian  seen  so  strange  a  mixture  of 
grandeur  and  country  style.  My  husband  seemed  to  be  divided 
between  amused  contempt  for  it,  and  a  sense  of  being  compro- 
mised by  its  pretence.  More  than  once  I  saw  him,  with  his 
monocle  in  his  eye,  look  round  at  his  friend  Eastcliff,  but  he 
helped  himself  frequently  from  a  large  decanter  of  brandy 
and  drank  healths  with  everybody. 

There  were  the  usual  marriage  pleasantries,  facetious  com- 
pliments and  chaff,  in  which  to  my  surprise  (the  solemnity 
of  the  service  being  still  upon  me)  the  Bishop  permitted 
himself  to  join. 

I  was  now  very  nervous,  and  yet  I  kept  up  a  forced  gaiety, 
though  my  heart  was  cold  and  sick.  I  remember  that  I  had 
a  preternatural  power  of  hearing  at  the  same  time  nearly 
every  conversation  that  was  going  on  at  the  table,  and  that 
I  joined  in  nearly  all  the  laughter. 

At  a  more  than  usually  loud  burst  of  wind  somebody  said 
it  would  be  a  mercy  if  the  storm  did  not  lift  the  roof  off. 

"Chut,  man!"  cried  my  father.  "Solid  oak  and  wrought 
iron  here.  None  of  your  mouldy  old  monuments  that  have 
enough  to  do  to  keep  their  tiles  on. ' ' 

"Then  nobody,"  said  my  husband  with  a  glance  at  his 
friend,  "need  be  afraid  of  losing  his  head  in  your  house,  sir?" 

"Not  if  he's  got  one  to  come  in  with,  sir." 

Betsy  Beauty,  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Eastcliff,  was  wondering 
if  he  would  do  us  the  honour  to  visit  the  island  oftener  now 
that  his  friend  had  married  into  it. 

"But,  my  dear  Betsy,"  said  my  husband,  "who  would 
live  in  this  God-forsaken  place  if  he  could  help  it?" 


MY  HONEYMOON  137 

"God-forsaken,  is  it?"  said  my  father.  "Maybe  so,  sir — 
but  that's  what  the  cuckoo  said  after  he  had  eaten  the  eggs 
out  of  the  thrush's  nest  and  left  a  mess  in  it." 

Aunt  Bridget  was  talking  in  doleful  tones  to  Lady  Margaret 
about  my  mother,  saying  she  had  promised  her  on  her  death- 
bed to  take  care  of  her  child  and  had  been  as  good  as  her  word, 
always  putting  me  before  her  own  daughter,  although  her 
ladyship  would  admit  that  Betsy  was  a  handsome  girl,  and, 
now  that  his  lordship  was  married,  there  were  few  in  the 
island  that  were  fit  for  her. 

' '  Why  no,  Mrs.  MacLeod, ' '  said  my  husband,  after  another 
significant  glance  at  his  friend,  "I  dare  say  you've  not  got 
many  who  can  make  enough  to  keep  a  carriage  ? ' ' 

' '  Truth  enough,  sir, ' '  said  my  father.  ' '  We  've  got  hundreds 
and  tons  that  can  make  debts  though." 

The  breakfast  came  to  an  end  at  length,  and  almost  before 
the  last  of  the  waiters  had  left  the  room  my  father  rose  to 
speak. 

"Friends  all,"  he  said,  "the  young  married  couple  have  to 
leave  us  for  the  afternoon  steamer. ' ' 

"In  this  weather?"  said  somebody,  pointing  up  to  the 
lantern  light  through  which  the  sky  was  now  darkening. 

"Chut!  A  puff  of  wind  and  a  slant  of  rain,  as  I've  been 
saying  to  my  gel  here.  But  my  son-in-law,  Lord  Raa,"  (loud 
cheers  followed  this  description,  with  some  laughter  and  much 
hammering  on  the  table),  "my  son-in-law  says  he  has  to  be 
in  London  to-morrow,  and  this  morning  my  daughter  has 
sworn  obedience.  .  .  .  What's  that,  Monsignor?  Not  obe- 
dience exactly?  Something  like  it  then,  so  she's  bound  to 
go  along  with  him.  So  fill  up  your  glasses  to  the  brim  and 
drink  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom." 

As  soon  as  the  noise  made  by  the  passing  of  decanters 
had  died  down  my  father  spoke  again. 

"This  is  the  proudest  day  of  my  life.  It's  the  day  I've 
worked  for  and  slaved  for  and  saved  for,  and  it's  come  to 
pass  at  last." 

There  was  another  chorus  of  applause. 

"What's  that  you  were  saying  in  church,  Mr.  Curphy,  sir? 
Time  brings  in  its  revenges?  It  does  too.  Look  at  me." 

My  father  put  his  thumbs  in  the  arm-pits  of  his  waistcoat. 

"You  all  know  what  I  am,  and  where  I  come  from." 

My  husband  put  his  monocle  to  his  eye  and  looked  up. 

"I  come  from  a  mud  cabin  on  the  Curragh,  not  a  hundred 


138  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

miles  from  here.  My  father  was  kill  .  .  .  but  never  mind 
about  that  now.  "When  he  left  us  it  was  middling  hard  collar 
work,  I  can  tell  you — what  with  me  working  the  bit  of  a  croft 
and  the  mother  weeding  for  some  of  you — some  of  your 
fathers  I  mane — ninepence  a  day  dry  days,  and  sixpence  all 
weathers.  When  I  was  a  lump  of  a  lad  I  was  sworn  at  in  the 
high  road  by  a  gentleman  driving  in  his  grand  carriage,  and 
the  mother  was  lashed  by  his  .  .  .  but  never  mind  about 
that  neither.  I  guess  I've  hustled  round  considerable  since 
then,  and  this  morning  I've  married  my  daughter  into  the 
first  family  in  the  island." 

There  was  another  burst  of  cheering  at  this,  but  it  was 
almost  drowned  by  the  loud  rattling  of  the  rain  which  was 
now  falling  on  the  lantern  light. 

"Monsignor,"  cried  my  father,  pitching  his  voice  still 
higher,  "what's  that  you  were  saying  in  Rome  about  the 
mills  of  God?" 

Fumbling  his  jewelled  cross  and  smiling  blandly  the  Bishop 
gave  my  father  the  familiar  quotation. 

"Truth  enough,  too.  The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly  but 
they're  grinding  exceeding  small.  Nineteen  years  ago  I 
thought  I  was  as  sure  of  what  I  wanted  as  when  I  got  out  of 
bed  this  morning.  If  my  gel  here  had  been  born  a  boy,  my 
son  would  have  sat  where  his  lordship  is  now  sitting.  But 
all's  well  that  ends  well!  If  I  haven't  got  a  son  I've  got  a 
son-in-law,  and  when  I  get  a  grandson  he'll  be  the  richest 
man  that  ever  stepped  into  Castle  Raa,  and  the  uncrowned 
king  of  Elian." 

At  that  there  was  a  tempest  of  cheers,  which,  mingling 
with  the  clamour  of  the  storm,  made  a  deafening  tumult. 

"They're  saying  a  dale  nowadays  about  fathers  and  chil- 
dren— daughters  being  separate  beings,  and  all  to  that.  But 
show  me  the  daughter  that  could  do  better  for  herself  than 
my  gel's  father  has  done  for  her.  She  has  a  big  fortune,  and 
her  husband  has  a  big  name,  and  what  more  do  they  want  in 
this  world  anyway  ? ' ' 

"Nothing  at  all,"  came  from  various  parts  of  the  room. 

"Neighbours,"  said  my  father,  looking  round  him  with  a 
satisfied  smile,  "I'm  laving  you  dry  as  herrings  in  a  hould, 
but  before  I  call  on  you  to  drink  this  toast  I  '11  ask  the  Bishop 
to  spake  to  you.  He's  a  grand  man  is  the  Bishop,  and  in 
fixing  up  this  marriage  I  don't  in  the  world  know  what  I 
could  have  done  without  him. ' ' 


MY  HONEYMOON  139 

The  Bishop,  still  fingering  his  jewelled  cross  and  smiling, 
spoke  in  his  usual  suave  voice.  He  firmly  believed  that  the 
Church  had  that  morning  blessed  a  most  propitious  and  happy 
union.  Something  might  be  said  against  mixed  marriages, 
but  under  proper  circumstances  the  Church  had  never  for- 
bidden them  and  his  lordship  (this  with  a  deep  bow  to  my 
husband)  had  behaved  with  great  liberality  of  mind. 

As  for  what  their  genial  and  rugged  host  had  said  of  cer- 
tain foolish  and  dangerous  notions  about  the  relations  of  father 
and  child,  he  was  reminded  that  there  were  still  more  foolish 
and  dangerous  ones  about  the  relations  of  husband  and  wife. 

From  the  earliest  ages  of  the  Church,  however,  those  rela- 
tions had  been  exactly  defined.  "Let  wives  be  subject  to 
their  husbands,"  said  the  Epistle  we  had  read  this  morning, 
and  no  less  conclusive  had  been  our  closing  prayer,  asking 
that  the  wife  keep  true  faith  with  her  husband,  being  lovely 
in  his  eyes  even  as  was  Rachel,  wise  as  was  Rebecca,  and 
dutiful  as  was  Sara. 

"Beautiful!"  whispered  Aunt  Bridget  to  Lady  Margaret. 
"It's  what  I  always  was  myself  in  the  days  of  the  dear 
Colonel." 

"And  now,"  said  the  Bishop,  "before  you  drink  this  toast 
and  call  upon  the  noble  bridegroom  to  respond  to  it,"  (another 
deep  bow  to  my  husband),  "I  will  ask  for  a  few  words  from 
the  two  legal  gentlemen  who  have  carried  out  the  admirably 
judicious  financial  arrangements  without  which  this  happy 
marriage  would  have  been  difficult  if  not  impossible. ' ' 

Then  my  husband's  lawyer,  with  a  supercilious  smile  on 
his  clean-shaven  face,  said  it  had  been  an  honour  to  him  to 
assist  in  preparing  the  way  for  the  "uncrowned  king  of 
Elian. "  ("It  lias,  sir, ' '  cried  my  father  in  a  loud  voice  which 
straightened  the  gentleman's  face  instantly) ;  and  finally  Mr. 
Curphy,  speaking  through  his  long  beard,  congratulated  my 
father  and  my  husband  equally  on  the  marriage,  and  gave  it 
as  his  opinion  that  there  could  be  no  better  use  for  wealth 
than  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  an  historic  family  which  had 
fallen  on  evil  times  and  only  required  a  little  money  to  set 
it  on  its  feet  again. 

"The  bride  and  bridegroom!"  cried  my  father;  and  then 
everybody  rose  and  there  was  much  cheering,  with  cries  of 
"His  lordship,"  "His  lordship." 

All   through  the   speech-making   my  husband  had   rolled 


140  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

uneasily  in  his  chair.  He  had  also  helped  himself  frequently 
from  the  decanter,  so  that  when  he  got  up  to  reply  he  was 
scarcely  sober. 

In  his  drawling  voice  he  thanked  the  Bishop,  and  said  that 
having  made  up  his  mind  to  the  marriage  he  had  never  dreamt 
of  raising  difficulties  about  religion.  As  to  the  modern  notions 
about  the  relations  of  husband  and  wife,  he  did  not  think  a 
girl  brought  up  in  a  convent  would  give  him  much  trouble  on 
that  subject. 

"Not  likely,"  cried  my  father.  "Ill  clear  her  of  that 
anyway." 

"So  I  thank  you  for  myself  and  for  my  family,"  continued 
my  husband,  "and  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  (this  to 
Lady  Margaret).  "I  thank  you  for  my  wife  also,  and  .  .  . 
and  that's  all." 

I  felt  sick  and  cold  and  ashamed.  A  rush  of  blood  came 
under  the  skin  of  my  face  that  must  have  made  me  red  to  the 
roots  of  my  hair. 

In  all  this  speaking  about  my  marriage  there  had  not  been 
one  word  about  myself — myself  really,  a  living  soul  with  all 
her  future  happiness  at  stake.  I  cannot  say  what  vague 
impulse  took  possession  of  me,  but  I  remember  that  when  my 
husband  sat  down  I  made  a  forced  laugh,  though  I  knew  well 
that  I  wanted  to  cry. 

In  an  agony  of  shame  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  wild  desire 
to  escape  from  the  room  and  even  from  the  house,  that  I 
might  breathe  in  some  of  the  free  wind  outside,  when  all  at 
once  I  became  aware  that  somebody  else  was  speaking. 

It  was  Father  Dan.  He  had  risen  unannounced  from  his 
seat  at  the  end  of  the  table.  I  saw  his  sack  coat  which  was 
much  worn  at  the  seams;  I  saw  his  round  face  which  was 
flushed;  I  heard  the  vibrating  note  in  his  soft  Irish  voice 
which  told  me  he  was  deeply  moved ;  and  then  I  dropped  my 
head,  for  I  knew  what  was  coming. 

THIRTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

"MB.  O'NEILL,"  said  Father  Dan,  "may  your  parish  priest 
take  the  liberty  of  speaking  without  being  spoken  to?" 

My  father  made  some  response,  and  then  a  hush  fell  over 
the  dining-room.  Either  the  storm  ceased  for  a  time,  or  in  my 
great  agitation  it  seemed  to  do  so,  for  I  did  not  hear  it. 

"We  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  marriage  we  have 


MY  HONEYMOON  141 

celebrated  to-day,  but  have  we  not  forgotten  something? 
What  is  marriage?  Is  it  the  execution  of  a  contract!  Is  it 
the  signing  of  a  register?  Is  it  even  the  taking  of  an  oath 
before  an  altar?  No.  Marriage  is  the  sacred  covenant  which 
two  souls  make  with  each  other,  the  woman  with  the  man,  the 
man  with  the  woman,  when  she  chooses  him  from  all  other 
men,  when  he  chooses  her  from  all  other  women,  to  belong  to 
each  other  for  ever,  so  that  no  misfortune,  no  storm  of  life, 
no  sin  on  either  side  shall  ever  put  them  apart.  That's  what 
marriage  is,  and  all  we  have  been  doing  to-day  is  to  call  on 
God  and  man  to  bear  witness  to  that  holy  bond." 

My  heart  was  beating  high.  I  raised  my  head,  and  I  think 
my  eyes  must  have  been  shining.  I  looked  across  at  the 
Bishop.  His  face  was  showing  signs  of  vexation. 

"Mr.  O'Neill,  sir,"  cried  Father  Dan,  raising  his  trembling 
voice,  "you  say  your  daughter  has  a  big  fortune  and  her 
husband  has  a  big  name,  and  what  more  do  they  want  in  this 
world?  I'll  tell  you  what  they  want,  sir.  They  want  love, 
love  on  both  sides,  if  they  are  to  be  good  and  happy,  and  if 
they've  got  that  they've  got  something  which  neither  wealth 
nor  rank  can  buy. ' ' 

I  had  dropped  my  head  again,  but  under  my  eyelashes  I 
could  see  that  the  company  were  sitting  spell-bound.  Only 
my  husband  was  shuffling  in  his  seat,  and  the  Bishop  was 
plucking  at  his  gold  chain. 

"My  Bishop,"  said  Father  Dan,  "has  told  us  of  the  sub- 
mission a  wife  owes  to  her  husband,  and  of  her  duty  to  be 
lovely  and  wise  and  faithful  in  his  eyes.  But  isn't  it  the 
answering  thought  that  the  husband  on  his  part  owes  some- 
thing to  the  wife?  Aren't  we  told  that  he  shall  put  away 
everything  and  everybody  for  her  sake,  and  cleave  to  her  and 
cling  to  her  and  they  shall  be  one  flesh?  Isn't  that,  too,  a 
divine  commandment?" 

My  heart  was  throbbing  so  loud  by  this  time  that  the  next 
words  were  lost  to  me.  When  I  came  to  myself  again  Father 
Dan  was  saying: 

"Think  what  marriage  means  to  a  woman — a  young  girl 
especially.  It  means  the  breaking  of  old  ties,  the  beginning 
of  a  new  life,  the  setting  out  into  an  unknown  world  on  a 
voyage  from  which  there  can  be  no  return.  In  her  weakness 
and  her  helplessness  she  leaves  one  dependency  for  another, 
the  shelter  of  a  father  for  the  shelter  of  a  husband.  What  does 
she  bring  to  the  man  she  marries  ?  Herself,  everything  she  is, 


142  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

everything  she  can  be,  to  be  made  or  marred  by  him,  and 
never,  never,  never  to  be  the  same  to  any  other  man  whatsoever 
as  long  as  life  shall  last." 

More  than  ever  now,  but  for  other  reasons,  I  wanted  to  fly 
from  the  room. 

"Friends,"  cried  Father  Dan,  "we  don't  know  much  of  the 
bridegroom  in  this  parish,  but  we  know  the  bride.  We've 
known  her  all  her  life.  We  know  what  she  is.  I  do,  anyway. 
If  you  are  her  father,  Mr.  O'Neill,  sir,  I  am  her  father  also. 
I  was  in  this  house  when  she  was  born.  I  baptized  her.  I  took 
her  out  of  the  arms  of  the  angel  who  bore  her.  So  she's  my 
child  too,  God  bless  her  .  .  . " 

His  voice  was  breaking — I  was  sobbing — though  he  was 
speaking  so  loudly  I  could  scarcely  hear  him — I  could  scarcely 
see  him — I  only  knew  that  he  was  facing  about  in  our  direction 
and  raising  his  trembling  hand  to  my  husband. 

' '  She  is  my  child,  too,  I  say,  and  now  that  she  is  leaving  us, 
now  that  you  are  taking  her  away  from  us,  I  charge  you,  my 
lord,  to  be  good  and  faithful  to  her,  as  you  will  have  to  answer 
for  her  soul  some  day. ' ' 

What  else  he  said  I  do  not  know.  From  that  moment  I  was 
blind  and  deaf  to  everything.  Nevertheless  I  was  conscious 
that  after  Father  Dan  had  ceased  to  speak  there  was  a  painful 
silence.  I  thought  the  company  seemed  to  be  startled  and 
even  a  little  annoyed  by  the  emotion  so  suddenly  shot  into 
their  midst.  The  Bishop  looked  vexed,  my  father  looked 
uncomfortable,  and  my  husband,  who  had  been  drinking  glass 
after  glass  of  brandy,  was  muttering  something  about  "a 
sermon. ' ' 

It  had  been  intended  that  Mr.  Easteliff  should  speak  for  the 
bridesmaids,  and  I  was  afterwards  told  by  Betsy  Beauty  that 
he  had  prepared  himself  with  many  clever  epigrams,  but 
everybody  felt  there  could  be  no  more  speaking  of  any  kind 
now.  After  a  few  awkward  moments  my  father  looked  at  his 
watch  and  said  it  was  about  time  for  us  to  start  if  we  were  to 
catch  the  steamer,  so  I  was  hurried  upstairs  to  change  for  our 
journey. 

When  I  came  down  again,  in  my  tailor-made  travelling  dress 
with  sables,  the  whole  company  was  in  the  hall  and  everybody 
seemed  to  be  talking  at  the  same  time,  making  a  noise  like 
water  in  a  weir. 

I  was  taken  possession  of  by  each  in  turn.  Nessy  MacLeod 
told  me  in  an  aside  what  an  excellent  father  I  had.  Betsy 


MY  HONEYMOON  143 

Beauty  -whispered  that  Mr.  Eastcliff  was  so  handsome  and 
their  tastes  were  so  similar  that  she  hoped  I  would  invite  him 
to  Castle  Raa  as  soon  as  I  came  back.  Aunt  Bridget,  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  sympathising  ladies  (including  Lady 
Margaret,  who  was  making  an  obvious  effort  to  be  gracious) 
was  wiping  her  eyes  and  saying  I  had  always  been  her 
favourite  and  she  had  faithfully  done  her  duty  by  me. 

"Mary,  my  love,"  she  said,  catching  my  eye,  "I'm  just 
telling  her  ladyship  I  don't  know  in  the  world  what  I'll  do 
when  you  are  gone. ' ' 

My  husband  was  there  too,  wearing  a  heavy  overcoat  with 
the  collar  up,  and  receiving  from  a  group  of  insular  gentlemen 
their  cheerful  prognostics  of  a  bad  passage. 

' '  'Deed,  but  I  'm  fearing  it  will  be  a  dirty  passage,  my 
lord." 

' '  Chut ! ' '  said  my  father.  ' '  The  wind 's  from  the  southwest. 
They'll  soon  get  shelter." 

The  first  of  our  two  cars  came  round  and  my  husband's 
valet  went  off  in  advance  with  our  luggage.  Then  the  second 
car  arrived,  and  the  time  came  for  our  departure.  I  think  I 
kissed  everybody.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  crying — every- 
body except  myself,  for  my  tears  were  all  gone  by  this  tune. 

Just  as  we  were  about  to  start,  the  storm,  which  must 
certainly  have  fallen  for  a  while,  sprang  up  suddenly,  and 
when  Tommy  the  Mate  (barely  recognisable  in  borrowed  black 
garments)  opened  the  door  the  wind  came  rushing  into  the 
house  with  a  long-drawn  whirr. 

I  had  said  good-bye  to  the  old  man,  and  was  stepping  into 
the  porch  when  I  remembered  Father  Dan.  He  was  standing 
in  his  shabby  sack  coat  with  a  sorrowful  face  in  a  dark  corner 
by  the  door,  as  if  he  had  placed  himself  there  to  see  the  last  of 
me.  I  wanted  to  put  my  arms  around  his  neck,  but  I  knew 
that  would  be  wrong,  so  I  dropped  to  my  knees  and  kissed  his 
hand  and  he  gave  me  his  blessing. 

My  husband,  who  was  waiting  by  the  side  of  the  throbbing 
automobile,  said  impatiently : 

"Come,  come,  dear,  don't  keep  me  in  the  rain." 

I  got  into  the  landaulette,  my  husband  got  in  after  me,  the 
car  began  to  move,  there  were  cries  from  within  the  house 
("Good-bye!"  "Good  luck!")  which  sounded  like  stifled 
shrieks  as  they  were  carried  off  by  the  wind  without,  and  then 
we  were  under  weigh. 

As  we  turned  the  corner  of  the  -drive  something  prompted 


144  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

me  to  look  back  at  my  mother's  window — with  its  memories 
of  my  first  going  to  school. 

At  the  next  moment  we  were  crossing  the  bridge — with  its 
memories  of  Martin  Conrad  and  William  Rufus. 

At  the  next  we  were  on  the  road. 

THIRTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

"THANK  God,  that's  over,"  said  my  husband.  Then,  half 
apologetically,  he  added:  "You  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  it  any 
more  than  myself,  my  dear." 

At  the  entrance  to  our  village  a  number  of  men  stood  firing 
guns;  in  the  middle  a  group  of  girls  were  stretching  a  rope 
across  the  road ;  a  number  of  small  flags,  torn  by  the  wind  and 
wet  with  the  rain,  were  rattling  on  flagstaffs  hung  out  from 
some  of  the  window  sills ;  a  few  women,  with  shawls  over  their 
heads,  were  sheltering  on  the  weather  side  of  their  porches 
to  see  us  pass. 

My  husband  was  impatient  of  our  simple  island  customs. 
Once  or  twice  he  lowered  the  window  of  the  car,  threw  out  a 
handful  of  silver  and  at  the  same  time  urged  the  chauffeur  to 
drive  quicker.  As  soon  as  we  were  clear  of  the  village  he  fell 
back  in  his  seat,  saying : 

"Heavens,  how  sleepy  I  am!  No  wonder  either!  Late 
going  to  bed  last  night  and  up  so  early  this  morning. ' ' 

After  a  moment  he  began  to  yawn,  and  almost  before  he 
could  have  been  aware  of  it  he  had  closed  his  eyes.  At  the 
next  moment  he  was  asleep. 

It  was  a  painful,  almost  a  hideous  sleep.  His  cheeks  swelled 
and  sank;  his  lips  parted,  he  was  breathing  heavily,  and 
sometimes  gaping  like  a  carp  out  of  water. 

1  could  not  detach  my  eyes  from  his  face,  which,  without 
eyes  to  relieve  it,  seemed  to  be  almost  repulsive  now.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  describe  my  sensations.  I  felt  dreadfully  humili- 
ated. Even  my  personal  pride  was  wounded.  I  remembered 
what  Father  Dan  had  said  about  husband  and  wife  being  one 
flesh,  and  told  myself  that  this  was  what  I  belonged  to,  what 
belonged  to  me — this!  Then  I  tried  to  reproach  and  reprove 
myself,  but  in  order  to  do  so  I  had  to  turn  my  eyes  away. 

Our  road  to  Blackwater  lay  over  the  ridge  of  a  hill  much 
exposed  to  the  wind  from  the  south-west.  When  we  reached 
this  point  the  clouds  seemed  to  roll  up  from  the  sea  like 
tempestuous  battalions.  Torrential  rain  fell  on  the  car  and 


MY  HONEYMOON  145 

came  dripping  in  from  the  juncture  of  the  landaulette  roof. 
Some  of  it  fell  on  the  sleeper  and  he  awoke  with  a  start. 

"Damn " 

He  stopped,  as  if  caught  in  guilt,  and  began  to  apologise 
again. 

"Was  I  asleep?  I  really  think  I  must  have  been.  Stupid, 
isn't  it?  Excuse  me." 

He  blinked  his  eyes  as  if  to  empty  them  of  sleep,  looked  me 
over  for  a  moment  or  two  in  silence,  and  then  said  with  a 
smile  which  made  me  shudder: 

"So  you  and  I  are  man  and  wife,  my  dear!" 

I  made  no  answer,  and,  still  looking  fixedly  at  me,  he  said : 

"Well,  worse  things  might  have  happened  after  all — what 
do  you  think?" 

Still  I  did  not  answer  him,  feeling  a  certain  shame,  not  to 
say  disgust.  Then  he  began  to  pay  me  some  compliments  on 
my  appearance. 

' '  Do  you  know  you  're  charming,  my  dear,  really  charming ! ' ' 

That  stung  me,  and  made  me  shudder,  I  don't  know  why, 
unless  it  was  because  the  words  gave  me  the  sense  of  having 
been  used  before  to  other  women.  I  turned  my  eyes  away 
again. 

"Don't  turn  away,  dear.  Let  me  see  those  big  black  eyes 
of  yours.  I  adore  black  eyes.  They  always  pierce  me  like  a 
gimlet. ' ' 

He  reached  forward  as  he  spoke  and  drew  me  to  him.  I  felt 
frightened  and  pushed  him  off. 

"What's  this?"  he  said,  as  if  surprised. 

But  after  another  moment  he  laughed,  and  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  had  had  much  to  do  with  women  and  thought  he 
knew  how  to  deal  with  them,  he  said: 

"Wants  to  be  coaxed,  does  she?   They  all  do,  bless  them!" 

Saying  this  he  pulled  me  closer  to  him,  putting  his  arm 
about  my  waist,  but  once  more  I  drew  and  forcibly  pushed 
him  from  me. 

His  face  darkened  for  an  instant,  and  then  cleared  again. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said.  "Offended,  is  she?  Paying  me  out 
for  having  paid  so  little  court  to  her?  Well,  she's  right  there 
too,  bless  her!  But  never  mind!  You're  a  decidedly  good- 
looking  little  woman,  my  dear,  and  if  I  have  neglected  you 
thus  far,  I  intend  to  make  up, for  it  during  the  honeymoon. 
So  come,  little  gal,  let's  be  friends." 

Taking  hold  of  me  again,  he  tried  to  kiss  me,  putting  at  the 

K 


146  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

same  time  his  hand  on  the  bosom  of  my  dress,  but  I  twisted 
my  face  aside  and  prevented  him. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Hurt  her  modesty,  have  I?"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing like  a  man  who  was  quite  sure  both  of  himself  and  of  me. 
"But  my  little  nun  will  get  over  that  by  and  by.  "Wait 
awhile!  "Wait  awhile!" 

By  this  time  I  was  trembling  with  the  shock  of  a  terror  that 
was  entirely  new  to  me.  I  could  not  explain  to  myself  the 
nature  of  it,  but  it  was  there,  and  I  could  not  escape  from  it. 

Hitherto,  when  I  had  thought  of  my  marriage  to  Lord  Raa 
I  had  been  troubled  by  the  absence  of  love  between  us;  and 
what  I  meant  to  myself  by  love — the  love  of  husband  and 
wife — was  the  kind  of  feeling  I  had  for  the  Reverend  Mother, 
heightened  and  deepened  and  spiritualised,  as  I  believed,  by 
the  fact  (with  all  its  mysterious  significance)  that  the  one  was 
a  man  and  the  other  a  woman. 

But  this  was  something  quite  different.  Not  having  found 
in  marriage  what  I  had  expected,  I  was  finding  something  else, 
for  there  could  be  no  mistaking  my  husband's  meaning  when 
he  looked  at  me  with  his  passionate  eyes  and  said,  ""Wait 
awhile!" 

I  saw  what  was  before  me,  and  in  fear  of  it  I  found  myself 
wishing  that  something  might  happen  to  save  me.  I  was  so 
frightened  that  if  I  could  have  escaped  from  the  car  I  should 
have  done  so.  The  only  thing  I  could  hope  for  was  that  we 
should  arrive  at  Blackwater  too  late  for  the  steamer,  or  that 
the  storm  would  prevent  it  from  sailing.  "What  relief  from  my 
situation  I  should  find  in  that,  beyond  the  delay  of  one  day, 
one  night  (in  which  I  imagined  I  might  be  allowed  to  return 
home),  I  did  not  know.  But  none  the  less  on  that  account  I 
began  to  watch  the  clouds  with  a  feverish  interest. 

They  were  wilder  than  ever  now — rolling  up  from  the  south- 
west in  huge  black  whorls  which  enveloped  the  mountains  and 
engulfed  the  valleys.  The  wind,  too,  was  howling  at  intervals 
like  a  beast  being  slaughtered.  It  was  terrible,  but  not  so 
terrible  as  the  thing  I  was  thinking  of.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
storm,  and  yet  I  was  fearfully,  frightfully  glad  of  it. 

My  husband,  who,  after  my  repulse,  had  dropped  back  into 
his  own  corner  of  the  car,  was  very  angry.  He  talked  again  of 
our  "God-forsaken  island,"  and  the  folly  of  living  in  it,  said 
our  passage  would  be  a  long  one  in  any  case,  and  we  might 
lose  our  connection  to  London. 


MY  HONEYMOON  147 

"Damnably  inconvenient  if  we  do.  I've  special  reasons  for 
being  there  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 

At  a  sharp  turn  of  the  road  the  wind  smote  the  car  as  with 
an  invisible  wing.  One  of  the  windows  was  blown  in,  and  to 
prevent  the  rain  from  driving  on  to  us  my  husband  had  to 
hold  up  a  cushion  in  the  gap. 

This  occupied  him  until  we  ran  into  Blackwater,  and  then 
he  dropped  the  cushion  and  put  his  head  out,  although  the 
rain  was  falling  heavily,  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
water  in  the  bay. 

It  was  in  terrific  turmoil.  My  heart  leapt  up  at  the  sight 
of  it.  My  husband  swore. 

"VTe  drew  up  on  the  drenched  and  naked  pier.  My  husband's 
valet,  in  waterproofs,  came  to  the  sheltered  side  of  the  car, 
and,  shouting  above  the  noises  of  the  wind  in  the  rigging  of 
the  steamer,  he  said: 

"Captain  will  not  sail  to-day,  my  lord  Inshore  wind. 
Says  he  couldn't  get  safely  out  of  the  harbour." 

My  husband  swore  violently.  I  was  unused  to  oaths  at  that 
time  and  they  cut  me  like  whipcord,  but  all  the  same  my 
pulse  was  bounding  joyfully. 

"Bad  luck,  my  lord,  but  only  one  thing  to  do  now,"  shouted 
the  valet. 

' '  "What 's  that  ? ' '  said  my  husband,  growling. 

"Sleep  in  Blaekwater  to-night,  in  hopes  of  weather  mending 
in  the  morning." 

Anticipating  this  course,  he  had  already  engaged  rooms  for 
us  at  the  "Fort  George." 

My  heart  fell,  and  I  waited  for  my  husband's  answer.  I 
was  stifling. 

"All  right,  Hobson.    If  it  must  be,  it  must,"  he  answered. 

I  wanted  to  speak,  but  I  did  not  know  what  to  say.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  that  I  could  say. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  we  arrived  at  the  hotel, 
where  the  proprietor,  attended  by  the  manageress  and  the 
waiters,  received  us  with  rather  familiar  smiles. 

THIRTY-FIFTH   CHAPTER 

WHEN  I  began  to  write  I  determined  to  tell  the  truth  and  the 
whole  truth.  But  now  I  find  that  the  whole  truth  will  require 
that  I  should  invade  some  of  the  most  sacred  intimacies  of 
human  experience.  At  this  moment  I  feel  as  if  I  were  on  the 


148  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

threshold  of  one  of  the  sanctuaries  of  a  woman's  life,  and  I 
ask  myself  if  it  is  necessary  and  inevitable  that  I  should 
enter  it. 

I  have  concluded  that  it  is  necessary  and  inevitable — 
necessary  to  the  sequence  of  my  narrative,  inevitable  for  the 
motive  with  which  I  am  writing  it. 

Four  times  already  I  have  written  what  is  to  follow.  In 
the  first  case  I  found  that  I  had  said  too  much.  In  the  second 
I  had  said  too  little.  In  the  third  I  was  startled  and  shocked 
by  the  portrait  I  had  presented  of  myself  and  could  not  believe 
it  to  be  true.  In  the  fourth  I  saw  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart 
that  the  portrait  was  not  only  true,  but  too  true.  Let  me  try 
again. 

I  entered  our  rooms  at  the  hotel,  my  husband's  room  and 
mine,  with^a  sense  of  fear,  almost  of  shame.  My  sensations 
at  that  moment  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  warm  flood  of 
feeling  which  comes  to  a  woman  when  she  finds  herself  alone 
for  the  first  time  with  the  man  she  loves,  in  a  little  room  which 
holds  everything  that  is  of  any  account  to  her  in  the  world. 
They  were  rather  those  of  a  young  girl  who,  walking  with  a 
candle  through  the  dark  corridors-  of  an  empty  house  at  night, 
is  suddenly  confronted  by  a  strange  face.  I  was  the  young 
girl  with  the  candle ;  the  strange  face  was  my  husband 's. 

We  had  three  rooms,  all  communicating,  a  sitting-room  in 
the  middle  with  bedrooms  right  and  left.  The  bedroom  on 
the  right  was  large  and  it  contained  a  huge  bed  with  a  covered 
top  and  tail-boards.  That  on  the  left  was  small,  and  it  had  a 
plain  brass  and  iron  bedstead,  which  had  evidently  been 
meant  for  a  lady 's  maid.  I  had  no  maid  yet.  It  was  intended 
that  I  should  engage  a  French  one  in  London. 

Almost  immediately  on  entering  the  sitting-room  my  hus- 
band, who  had  not  yet  recovered  from  his  disappointment, 
left  me  to  go  downstairs,  saying  with  something  like  a  growl 
that  he  had  telegrams  to  send  to  London  and  instructions  to 
give  to  his  man  Hobson. 

Without  taking  off  my  outer  things  I  stepped  up  to  the 
windows,  which  were  encrusted  with  salt  from  the  flying 
spray.  The  hotel  stood  on  a  rocky  ledge  above  the  harbour, 
and  the  sound  of  the  sea,  beating  on  the  outer  side  of  the  pier, 
came  up  with  a  deafening  roar.  The  red-funnelled  steamer 
we  should  have  sailed  by  lay  on  the  pier's  sheltered  side,  let- 


MY  HONEYMOON  149 

ting  down  steam,  swaying  to  her  creaking  hawsers,  and  heaving 
to  the  foam  that  was  surging  against  her  bow. 

I  was  so  nervous,  so  flurried,  so  preoccupied  by  vague  fears 
that  I  hardly  saw  or  heard  anything.  Porters  came  up  with 
our  trunks  and  asked  me  where  they  were  to  place  them,  but  I 
scarcely  know  how  I  answered  them,  although  I  was  aware 
that  everything — both  my  husband's  luggage  and  mine — was 
being  taken  into  the  large  bedroom.  A  maid  asked  if  she 
ought  to  put  a  light  to  the  fire,  and  I  said  "Yes  ...  no  ... 
yes,"  and  presently  I  heard  the  fire  crackling. 

After  awhile  my  husband  came  back  in  a  better  temper  and 
said : 

"Confounded  nuisance,  but  I  suppose  we  must  make  the 
best  of  it." 

He  laughed  as  he  said  this,  and  coming  closer  and  looking 
me  over  with  a  smile  which  was  at  the  same  tune  passionate 
and  proud,  he  whispered: 

"Dare  say  we'll  not  find  the  tune  long  until  to-morrow 
morning.  What  do  you  think,  my  little  beauty?" 

Something  in  his  voice  rather  than  in  his  question  made 
my  heart  beat,  and  I  could  feel  my  face  growing  hot. 

"Not  taken  off  your  things  yet?"  he  said.  "Come,  let 
me  help  you." 

I  drew  out  my  hat-pins  and  removed  my  hat.  At  the 
same  moment  my  husband  removed  my  sables  and  cloak,  and 
as  he  did  so  he  put  his  arms  about  me,  and  held  me  close  to 
him. 

I  shuddered.  I  tried  not  to,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  My 
husband  laughed  again,  and  said: 

"Not  got  over  it  yet,  little  woman?  Perhaps  that's  only 
because  you  are  not  quite  used  to  me." 

Still  laughing  he  pulled  me  still  closer  to  him  and  putting 
one  of  his  hands  under  my  chin  he  kissed  me  on  the  mouth. 

It  will  be  difficult  and  perhaps  it  will  be  ridiculous  to  say 
kow  my  husband's  first  kiss  shocked  me.  My  mouth  felt 
parched,  I  had  a  sense  of  intense  disgust,  and  before  I  was 
quite  aware  of  what  I  was  doing  I  had  put  up  both  hands  to 
push  him  off. 

"Come,  come,  this  is  going  too  far,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that 
was  half  playful,  half  serious.  "It  was  all  very  well  in  the 
automobile;  but  here,  in  your  own  rooms,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  and  laughed  again,  saying  that  if  my  modesty 


150  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

only  meant  that  nobody  had  ever  kissed  me  before  it  made  me 
all  the  more  charming  for  him. 

I  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  ashamed  of  my  embarrass- 
ment, and  crossing  in  front  of  my  husband  I  seated  myself  in 
a  chair  before  the  fire.  He  looked  after  me  with  a  smile  that 
made  my  heart  tremble,  and  then,  coming  behind  my  chair, 
he  put  his  arms  about  my  shoulders  and  kissed  my  neck. 

A  shiver  ran  through  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  suffered  a  kind 
of  indecency.  I  got  up  and  changed  my  place.  My  husband 
•watched  me  with  the  look  of  a  man  who  wanted  to  roar  with 
laughter.  It  was  the  proud  and  insolent  as  well  as  passionate 
look  of  one  who  had  never  so  much  as  contemplated  resistance. 

"Well,  this  is  funny,"  he  said.  "But  we'll  see  presently! 
We'll  see!" 

A  waiter  came  in  for  orders,  and  early  as  it  was  my  hus- 
band asked  for  dinner  to  be  served  immediately.  My  heart 
was  fluttering  excitedly  by  this  tune  and  I  was  glad  of  the 
relief  which  the  presence  of  other  people  gave  me. 

While  the  table  was  being  laid  my  husband  talked  of  the 
doings  of  the  day.  He  asked  who  was  ' '  the  seedy  old  priest ' ' 
who  had  given  us  "the  sermon"  at  the  wedding  breakfast — 
he  had  evidently  forgotten  that  he  had  seen  the  Father  before. 

I  told  him  the  "seedy  old  priest"  was  Father  Dan,  and  he 
was  a  saint  if  ever  there  was  one. 

"A  saint,  is  he?"  said  my  husband.  "Wish  saint  were 
not  synonymous  with  simpleton,  though." 

Then  he  gave  me  his  own  views  of  "the  holy  state  of 
matrimony."  By  holding  people  together  who  ought  to  be 
apart  it  often  caused  more  misery  and  degradation  of  char- 
acter than  a  dozen  entirely  natural  adulteries  and  desertions, 
which  a  man  had  sometimes  to  repair  by  marriage  or  else 
allow  himself  to  be  regarded  as  a  seducer  and  a  scoundrel. 

I  do  not  think  my  husband  was  conscious  of  the  naive 
coarseness  of  all  this,  as  spoken  to  a  young  girl  who  had  only 
just  become  his  wife.  I  am  sure  he  was  not  aware  that  he 
was  betraying  himself  to  me  in  every  word  he  uttered  and 
making  the  repugnance  I  had  begun  to  feel  for  him  deepen 
into  horror. 

My  palms  became  moist,  and  again  and  again  I  had  to  dry 
them  with  my  handkerchief.  I  was  feeling  more  frightened 
and  more  ashamed  than  I  had  ever  felt  before,  but  neverthe- 
less when  we  sat  down  to  dinner  I  tried  to  compose  myself. 
Partly  for  the  sake  of  appearance  before  the  servants,  and 


MY  HONEYMOON  151 

partly  because  I  was  taking  myself  to  task  for  the  repugnance 
I  felt  towards  my  husband,  I  found  something  to  say,  though 
my  voice  shook. 

My  husband  ate  ravenously  and  drank  a  good  deal.  Once 
or  twice,  when  he  insisted  on  pouring  out  champagne  for  me, 
I  clinked  glasses  with  him.  Although  every  moment  at  table 
was  increasing  my  fear  and  disgust,  I  sometimes  allowed  my- 
self to  laugh. 

Encouraged  by  this  he  renewed  his  endearments  even  before 
the  waiters  had  left  the  room,  and  when  they  had  gone,  with 
orders  not  to  return  until  he  rang,  and  the  door  was  closed 
behind  them,  he  switched  off  the  lights,  pushed  a  sofa  in 
front  of  the  fire,  put  me  to  sit  on  it,  sat  down  beside  me  and 
redoubled  his  tenderness. 

' '  How 's  my  demure  little  nun  now  ? "  he  said.  ' '  Frightened, 
wasn't  she?  They're  all  frightened  at  first,  bless  them!" 

I  could  smell  the  liquor  he  had  been  drinking.  I  could  see 
by  the  firelight  the  prominent  front  tooth  (partly  hidden  by 
his  moustache)  which  I  had  noticed  when  I  saw  him  first,  and 
the  down  of  soft  hair  which  grew  as  low  on  his  hands  as  his 
knuckles.  Above  all  I  thought  I  could  feel  the  atmosphere 
of  other  women  about  him — loose  women,  bad  women  as  it 
seemed  to  me — and  my  fear  and  disgust  began  to  be  mixed 
with  a  kind  of  physical  horror. 

For  a  little  while  I  tried  to  fight  against  this  feeling,  but 
when  he  began  to  put  his  arms  about  me,  calling  me  by  en- 
dearing names,  complaining  of  my  coldness,  telling  me  not  to 
be  afraid  of  him,  reminding  me  that  I  belonged  to  him  now, 
and  must  do  as  he  wished,  a  faintness  came  over  me,  I 
trembled  from  head  to  foot  and  made  some  effort  to  rise. 

"Let  me  go,"  I  said. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said,  laughing  and  holding  me  to  my  seat. 
"You  bewitching  little  woman!  You're  only  teasing  me. 
How  they  love  to  tease,  these  charming  little  women!" 

The  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  glistening.  I  closed  my  own 
eyes  in  order  to  avoid  his  look.  At  the  next  moment  I  felt 
his  hand  stray  down  my  body  and  in  a  fury  of  indignation  I 
broke  out  of  his  arms  and  leapt  to  my  feet. 

"When  I  recovered  my  self-possession  I  was  again  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  my  husband,  who  was  behind  me,  was 
saying  in  a  tone  of  anger  and  annoyance: 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?    I  can't  understand.    What 


152  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

have  I  done?  Good  heavens,  we  are  man  and  wife, 
aren't  we?" 

I  made  no  answer.  My  heart  which  had  been  hot  with  rage 
was  becoming  cold  with  dread.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
suffered  an  outrage  on  my  natural  modesty  as  a  human  being, 
a  sort  of  offence  against  my  dignity  as  a  woman. 

It  was  now  dark.  "With  my  face  to  the  window  I  could  see 
nothing.  The  rain  was  beating  against  the  glass.  The  sea 
was  booming  on  the  rocks.  I  wanted  to  fly,  but  I  felt  caged 
— morally  and  physically  caged. 

My  husband  had  lit  a  cigarette  and  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  sitting-room,  apparently  trying  to  think  things  out. 
After  awhile  he  approached  me,  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  said: 

"I  see  how  it  is.  You're  tired,  and  no  wonder.  You've 
had  a  long  and  exhausting  day.  Better  go  to  bed.  We'll 
have  to  be  up  early." 

Glad  to  escape  from  his  presence  I  allowed  him  to  lead  me 
to  the  large  bedroom.  As  I  was  crossing  the  threshold  he 
told  me  to  undress  and  get  into  bed,  and  after  that  he  said 
something  about  waiting.  Then  he  closed  the  door  softly 
and  I  was  alone. 

THIRTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

THERE  was  a  fire  in  the  bedroom  and  I  sat  down  in  front 
of  it.  Many  forces  were  warring  within  me.  I  was  trying  to 
fix  my  thoughts  and  found  it  difficult  to  do  so. 

Some  time  passed.  My  husband's  man  came  in  with  the 
noiseless  step  of  all  such  persons,  opened  one  of  the  portman- 
teaux and  laid  out  his  master's  combs  and  brushes  on  the 
dressing  table  and  his  sleeping  suit  on  the  bed.  A  maid  of  the 
hotel  followed  him,  and  taking  my  own  sleeping  things  out  of 
the  top  tray  of  my  trunk  she  laid  them  out  beside  my 
husband 's. 

"Good-night,  my  lady,"  they  said  in  their  low  voices  as 
they  went  out  on  tiptoe. 

I  hardly  heard  them.  My  mind,  at  first  numb,  was  now 
going  at  lightning  speed.  Brought  face  to  face  for  the  first 
time  with  one  of  the  greatest  facts  of  a  woman's  life  I  was 
asking  myself  why  I  had  not  reckoned  with  it  before. 

I  had  not  even  thought  of  it.  My  whole  soul  had  been 
so  much  occupied  with  one  great  spiritual  issue — that  I  did 


MY  HONEYMOON  153 

not  love  my  husband  (as  I  understood  love),  that  my  husband 
did  not  love  me — that  I  had  never  once  plainly  confronted, 
even  in  my  own  mind,  the  physical  fact  that  is  the  first 
condition  of  matrimony,  and  nobody  had  mentioned  it  to  me 
or  even  hinted  at  it. 

I  could  not  plead  that  I  did  not  know  of  this  condition. 
I  was  young  but  I  was  not  a  child.  I  had  been  brought  up  in 
a  convent,  but  a  convent  is  not  a  nursery.  Then  why  had  I 
not  thought  of  it? 

While  sitting  before  the  fire,  gathering  together  these  dark 
thoughts,  I  was  in  such  fear  that  I  was  always  conscious  of 
my  husband's  movements  in  the  adjoining  room.  At  one 
moment  there  was  the  jingling  of  his  glass  against  the  de- 
canter, at  another  moment  the  smell  of  his  cigarette  smoke. 
From  time  to  time  he  came  to  the  door  and  called  to  me  in 
a  sort  of  husky  whisper,  asking  if  I  was  in  bed. 

"Don't  keep  me  long,  little  girl." 

I  shuddered  but  made  no  reply. 

At  last  he  knocked  softly  and  said  he  was  coming  in.  I 
was  still  crouching  over  the  fire  as  he  came  up  behind  me. 

' '  Not  in  bed  yet  ? "  he  said.    ' '  Then  I  must  put  you  to  bed. ' ' 

Before  I  could  prevent  him  he  had  lifted  me  in  his  arms, 
dragged  me  on  to  his  knee  and  was  pulling  down  my  hair, 
laughing  as  he  did  so,  calling  me  by  coarse  endearing  names 
and  telling  me  not  to  fight  and  struggle. 

But  the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  back  in  the  sitting-room, 
where  I  had  switched  up  the  lights,  and  my  husband,  whose 
face  was  distorted  by  passion,  was  blazing  out  at  me. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "I'm  your  husband, 
am  I  not?  You  are  my  wife,  aren't  you?  What  did  you 
marry  for?  Good  heavens,  can  it  be  possible  that  you  don't 
know  what  the  conditions  of  matrimony  are?  Is  that  what 
comes  of  being  brought  up  in  a  convent?  But  has  your 
father  allowed  you  to  marry  without.  .  .  .  And  your  Aunt — 
what  in  God's  name  has  the  woman  been  doing?" 

I  crossed  towards  the  smaller  bedroom  intending  to  enter 
it,  but  my  husband  intercepted  me. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said,  catching  at  my  wrist.  "Think 
of  the  servants.  Think  what  they'd  say.  Think  what  the 
whole  island  would  say.  Do  you  want  to  make  a  laughing- 
stock of  both  of  us?" 

I  returned  and  sat  by  the  table.  My  husband  lit  another 
cigarette.  Nervously  flicking  the  ends  off  with  the  index 


154  THE   WOMAN   THOU   GAYEST  ME 

finger  of  his  left  hand,  and  speaking  quickly,  as  if  the  words 
scorched  his  lips,  he  told  me  I  was  mistaken  if  I  supposed  that 
he  wanted  a  scene  like  this.  He  thought  he  could  spend  his 
time  better.  I  was  equally  mistaken  if  I  imagined  that  he  had 
desired  our  marriage  at  all.  Something  quite  different  might 
have  happened  if  he  could  have  afforded  to  please  himself. 

He  had  made  sacrifices  to  marry  me,  too.  Perhaps  I 
had  not  thought  of  that,  but  did  I  suppose  a  man  of  his  clasr; 
wanted  a  person  like  my  father  for  his  father-in-law.  And 
then  my  Aunt  and  my  cousins — ugh! 

The  Bishop,  too!  Was  it  nothing  that  a  man  had  been 
compelled  to  make  all  those  ridiculous  declarations  ?  Children 
to  be  brought  up  Catholics !  Wife  not  to  be  influenced ! 
Even  to  keep  an  open  mind  himself  to  all  the  muss  and 
mummery  of  the  Church! 

It  wasn't  over  either.  That  seedy  old  "saint"  was 
probably  my  confessor.  Did  any  rational  man  want  another 
man  to  come  between  him  and  his  wife — knowing  all  he  did 
and  said,  and  everything  about  him? 

I  was  heart-sick  as  I  listened  to  all  this.  Apparently  the 
moral  of  it  was  that  if  I  had  been  allowed  to  marry  without 
being  instructed  in  the  first  conditions  of  married  life  my 
husband  had  suffered  a  gross  and  shocking  injustice. 

The  disgust  I  felt  was  choking  me.  It  was  horribly  humili- 
ating and  degrading  to  see  my  marriage  from  my  husband's 
point  of  view,  and  when  I  remembered  that  I  was  bound  fast 
to  the  man  who  talked  to  me  like  this,  and  that  he  could  claim 
rights  in  me,  to-night,  to-morrow,  as  long  as  I  lived,  until 
death  parted  us,  a  wild  impulse  of  impotent  anger  at  every- 
body and  everything  made  me  drop  my  head  on  to  the  table 
and  burst  into  tears. 

My  husband  misunderstood  this,  as  he  misunderstood  every- 
thing. Taking  my  crying  for  the  last  remnant  of  my  resist- 
ance he  put  his  arms  round  my  shoulders  again  and  renewed 
his  fondling. 

"Come,  don't  let  us  have  any  more  conjugal  scenes,"  he 
said.  "The  people  of  the  hotel  will  hear  us  presently,  and 
there  will  be  all  sorts  of  ridiculous  rumours.  If  your  family 
are  rather  common  people  you  are  a  different  pair  of  shoes 
altogether. ' ' 

He  was  laughing  again,  kissing  my  neck  (in  spite  of  my 
shuddering)  and  saying: 

"You  really  please  me  very  much,  you  do  indeed,  and  if 


MY  HONEYMOON  155 

they've  kept  you  in  ignorance,  what  matter?  Come  now, 
my  sweet  little  woman,  we'll  soon  repair  that." 

I  could  bear  no  more.  I  must  speak  and  I  did.  Leaping 
up  and  facing  round  on  him  I  told  him  my  side  of  the 
story — how  I  had  been  married  against  my  will,  and  had  not 
wanted  him  any  more  than  he  had  wanted  me;  how  all  my 
objections  had  been  overruled,  all  my  compunctions  borne 
down;  how  everybody  had  been  in  a  conspiracy  to  compel 
me,  and  I  had  been  bought  and  sold  like  a  slave. 

"But  you  can't  go  any  farther  than  that,"  I  said.  "Be- 
tween you,  you  have  forced  me  to  marry  you,  but  nobody  can 
force  me  to  obey  you,  because  I  won 't. ' ' 

I  saw  his  face  grow  paler  and  paler  as  I  spoke,  and  when 
I  had  finished  it  was  ash  en- white. 

' '  So  that 's  how  it  is,  is  it  ? "  he  said,  and  for  some  minutes 
more  he  tramped  about  the  room,  muttering  inaudible  words, 
as  if  trying  to  account  to  himself  for  my  conduct.  At  length 
he  approached  me  again  and  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
thought  he  was  making  peace: 

"Look  here,  Mary.  I  think  I  understand  you  at  last.  You 
have  some  other  attachment — that's  it,  I  suppose.  Oh,  don't 
think  I  'm  blaming  you.  I  may  be  in  the  same  case  myself  for 
all  you  know  to  the  contrary.  But  circumstances  have  been 
too  strong  for  us  and  here  we  are.  "Well,  we're  in  it,  and 
we  've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it  and  why  shouldn  't  we  ?  Lots 
of  people  in  my  class  are  in  the  same  position,  and  yet  they 
get  along  all  right.  Why  can't  we  do  the  same?  I'll  not  be 
too  particular.  Neither  will  you.  For  the  rest  of  our  lives 
let  each  of  us  go  his  and  her  own  way.  But  that's  no  reason 
why  we  should  be  strangers  exactly.  Not  on  our  wedding-day 
at  all  events.  You're  a  damned  pretty  woman  and  I'm.  .  .  . 
Well,  I'm  not  an  ogre,  I  suppose.  We  are  man  and  wife,  too. 
So  look  here,  we  won't  expect  too  much  affection  from  each 
other — but  let's  stop  this  fooling  and  be  good  friends  for  a 
little  while  anyway.  Come,  now." 

Once  more  he  took  hold  of  me,  as  if  to  draw  me  back,  kissing 
my  hands  as  he  did  so,  but  his  gross  misinterpretation  of  my 
resistance  and  the  immoral  position  he  was  putting  me  into 
were  stifling  me,  and  I  cried: 

"No,  I  will  not.  Don't  you  see  that  I  hate  and  loathe 
you?" 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  me  this  time.  The  truth  had 
fallen  on  my  husband  with  a  shock.  I  think  it  was  the  last 


156  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

thing  his  pride  had  expected.  His  face  became  shockingly 
distorted.  But  after  a  moment,  recovering  himself  with  a 
cruel  laugh  that  made  my  hot  blood  run  cold,  he  said: 

"Nevertheless,  you  shall  do  as  I  wish.  You  are  my  wife, 
and  as  such  you  belong  to  me.  The  law  allows  me  to  compel 
you  and  I  will." 

The  words  went  shrieking  through  and  through  me.  He 
was  coming  towards  me  with  outstretched  arms,  his  teeth  set, 
and  his  pupils  fixed.  In  the  drunkenness  of  his  rage  he  was 
laughing  brutally. 

But  all  my  fear  had  left  me.  I  felt  an  almost  murderous 
impulse.  I  wanted  to  strike  him  on  the  fa.ce. 

"If  you  attempt  to  touch  me  I  will  throw  myself  out  of  the 
window,"  I  said. 

' '  No  fear  of  that, ' '  he  said,  catching  me  quickly  in  his  arms. 

' '  If  you  do  not  take  your  hands  off  me  I  '11  shriek  the  house 
down,"  I  cried. 

That  was  enough.  He  let  me  go  and  dropped  back  from 
me.  At  the  next  moment  I  was  breathing  with  a  sense  of 
freedom.  "Without  resistance  on  my  husband's  part  I  entered 
the  little  bedroom  to  the  left  and  locked  the  door  behind  me. 

THIRTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

SOME  further  time  passed.  I  sat  by  the  fireless  grate  with 
my  chin  in  my  hand.  If  the  storm  outside  was  still  raging 
I  did  not  hear  it.  I  was  listening  to  the  confused  sounds 
that  came  from  the  sitting-room. 

My  husband  was  pacing  to  and  fro,  muttering  oaths, 
knocking  against  the  furniture,  breaking  things.  At  one 
moment  there  was  a  crash  of  glass,  as  if  he  had  helped  himself 
to  brandy  and  then  in  his  ungovernable  passion  flung  the 
decanter  into  the  fire  grate. 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  sitting-room.  It  must  have 
been  a  waiter,  for  through  the  wall  I  heard  the  muffled  sound 
of  a  voice  asking  if  there  had  been  an  accident.  My  husband 
swore  at  the  man  and  sent  him  off.  Hadn't  he  told  him  not 
to  come  until  he  was  rung  for? 

At  length,  after  half  an  hour  perhaps,  my  husband  knocked 
at  the  door  of  my  little  room. 

"Are  you  there?"  he  asked. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"Open  the  door." 


MY  HONEYMOON  157 

I  sat  motionless. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything. 
I've  something  to  say." 

Still  I  made  no  reply.  My  husband  went  away  for  a 
moment  and  then  came  back. 

"If  you  are  determined  not  to  open  the  door  I  must  say 
what  I've  got  to  say  from  here.  Are  you  listening?" 

Sitting  painfully  rigid  I  answered  that  I  was. 

Then  he  told  me  that  what  I  was  doing  would  entitle  him 
to  annul  our  marriage — in  the  eyes  of  the  Church  at  all  events. 

If  he  thought  that  threat  would  intimidate  me  he  was 
mistaken — a  wave  of  secret  joy  coursed  through  me. 

"It  won't  matter  much  to  me — I'll  take  care  it  won't — 
but  it  will  be  a  degrading  business  for  you — invalidity  and 
all  that.  Are  you  prepared  for  it?" 

I  continued  to  sit  silent  and  motionless. 

"I  daresay  we  shall  both  be  laughed  at,  but  I  cannot  help 
that.  We  can't  possibly  live  together  on  terms  like  these." 

Another  wave  of  joy  coursed  through  me. 

"Anyhow  I  intend  to  know  before  I  leave  the  island  how 
things  are  to  be.  I  'm  not  going  to  take  you  away  until  I  get 
some  satisfaction.  You  understand?" 

I  listened,  almost  without  breathing,  but  I  did  not  reply. 

"I'm  think  of  writing  a  letter  to  your  father,  and  sending 
Hobson  with  it  in  the  car  immediately.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  know  what  your  father  is.  Unless  I'm  much 
mistaken  he's  not  a  man  to  have  much  patience  with  your 
semi-romantic,  semi-religious  sentiments.  Are  you  quite 
satisfied?" 

"Quite." 

"Very  well!     That's  what  I'll  do,  then." 

After  this  there  was  a  period  of  quiet  in  which  I  assumed 
that  my  husband  was  writing  his  letter.  Then  I  heard  a  bell 
ring  somewhere  in  the  corridor,  and  shortly  afterwards  there 
was  a  second  voice  in  the  sitting-room,  but  I  could  not  hear 
the  words  that  were  spoken.  I  suppose  it  was  Hobson 's  low 
voice,  for  after  another  short  interval  of  silence  there  came 
the  thrum  and  throb  of  a  motorcar  and  the  rumble  of  india- 
rubber  wheels  on  the  wet  gravel  of  the  courtyard  in  front 
of  the  hotel. 

Then  my  husband  knocked  at  my  door  again. 

"I've  written  that  letter  and  Hobson  is  waiting  to  take  it. 


158 

Your  father  will  probably  get  it  before  he  goes  to  bed.  It 
will  be  a  bad  break  on  the  festivities  he  was  preparing  for 
the  village  people.  But  you  are  still  of  the  same  mind,  I 
suppose  ? ' ' 

I  did  not  speak,  but  I  rose  and  went  over  to  the  window. 
For  some  reason  difficult  to  explain,  that  reference  to  the 
festivities  had  cut  me  to  the  quick. 

My  husband  must  have  been  fuming  at  my  apparent  in- 
difference, and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  see  him  looking  at  me, 
passionate  and  proud. 

"Between  the  lot  of  you  I  think  you've  done  me  a  great 
injustice.  Have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Even  then  I  did  not  answer. 

"All  right!    As  you  please." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  I  heard  the  motor  car  turning 
and  driving  away. 

The  wind  had  fallen,  the  waves  were  rolling  into  the 
harbour  with  that  monotonous  moan  which  is  the  sea 's 
memory  of  a  storm,  and  a  full  moon,  like  a  white-robed  queen, 
was  riding  through  a  troubled  sky. 

THIRTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

THE  moon  had  died  out;  a  new  day  had  dawned;  the  sea 
was  lying  as  quiet  as  a  sleeping  child;  far  out  on  the  level 
horizon  the  sky  was  crimsoning  before  the  rising  sun,  and 
clouds  of  white  sea-gulls  were  swirling  and  jabbering  above 
the  rocks  in  the  harbour  below  the  house  before  I  lay  down 
to  sleep. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  hurried  knocking  at  my  door,  and  by 
an  impatient  voice  crying: 

"Mary!    Mary!    Get  up!    Let  me  in!" 

It  was  Aunt  Bridget  who  had  arrived  in  my  husband's 
automobile.  When  I  opened  the  door  to  her  she  came  sailing 
into  the  room  with  her  new  half-moon  bonnet  a  little  awry, 
as  if  she  had  put  it  on  hurriedly  in  the  dim  light  of  early 
morning,  and,  looking  at  me  with  her  cold  grey  eyes  behind 
their  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  she  began  to  bombard  me  with 
mingled  ridicule  and  indignant  protest. 

"Goodness  me,  girl,  what's  all  this  fuss  about?  You 
little  simpleton,  tell  me  what  has  happened!" 

She  was  laughing.  I  had  hardly  ever  heard  Aunt  Bridget 
laugh  before.  But  her  vexation  soon  got  the  better  of  her 
merriment. 


MY  HONEYMOON  159 

"His  lordship's  letter  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
and  nearly  frightened  us  out  of  our  senses.  Your  father  was 
for  coming  away  straight,  and  it  would  have  been  worse  for 
you  if  he  had.  But  I  said:  'No,  this  is  work  for  a  woman, 
I'll  go,'  and  here  I  am.  And  now  tell  me,  what  in  the 
name  of  goodness  does  this  ridiculous  trouble  mean?" 

It  was  hard  to  say  anything  on  such  a  subject  under  such 
circumstances,  especially  when  so  challenged,  but  Aunt 
Bridget,  without  waiting  for  my  reply,  proceeded  to  indicate 
the  substance  of  my  husband's  letter. 

From  this  I  gathered  that  he  had  chosen  (probably  to  save 
his  pride)  to  set  down  my  resistance  to  ignorance  of  the  first 
conditions  of  matrimony,  and  had  charged  my  father  first 
and  Aunt  Bridget  afterwards  with  doing  him  a  shocking 
injustice  in  permitting  me  to  be  married  to  him  without  tell- 
ing me  what  every  girl  who  becomes  a  wife  ought  to  know. 

"But,  good  gracious,"  said  my  Aunt  Bridget,  "who  would 
have  imagined  you  didn't  know.  I  thought  every  girl  in  the 
world  knew  before  she  put  up  her  hair  and  came  out  of  short 
frocks.  My  Betsy  did,  I'm  sure  of  that.  And  to  think 
that  you — you  whom  we  thought  so  cute,  so  cunning.  .  .  . 
Mary  O'Neill,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  I  really,  really  am! 
Why,  you  goose"  (Aunt  Bridget  was  again  trying  to  laugh), 
"how  did  you  suppose  the  world  went  on?" 

The  coarse  ridicule  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  my  maidenly 
modesty  cut  me  like  a  knife,  but  I  could  not  permit  myself 
to  explain,  so  my  Aunt  Bridget  ran  on  talking. 

"I  see  how  it  has  been.  It's  the  fault  of  that  Reverend 
Mother  at  the  convent.  What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she?  Is 
she  a  woman  at  all,  I  wonder,  or  only  a  piece  of  stucco  that 
ought  to  be  put  up  in  a  church  corner!  To  think  she  could 
have  you  nine  years  and  never  say  one  word  about.  .  .  .  Well, 
well!  What  has  she  been  doing  with  you?  Talking  about 
the  mysteries,  I  suppose — prayers  and  retreats  and  novenas, 
and  the  spiritual  bridegroom  and  the  rest  of  it,  while  all  the 
while.  .  .  .  But  you  must  put  the  convent  out  of  your  head, 
my  girl.  You  are  a  married  woman  now.  You've  got  to 
think  of  your  husband,  and  a  husband  isn  't  a  spiritual  bride- 
groom I  can  tell  you.  He's  flesh  and  blood,  that's  what  a 
husband  is,  and  you  can't  expect  him  to  spend  his  time  talk- 
ing about  eternity  and  the  rosary.  Not  on  his  wedding-day, 
anyway. ' ' 


160  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

I  was  hot  in  my  absurd  embarrassment,  and  I  dare  say  my 
face  was  scarlet,  but  Aunt  Bridget  showed  me  no  mercy. 

"The  way  you  have  behaved  is  too  silly  for  anything  .  .  . 
It  really  is.  A  husband's  a  husband,  and  a  wife's  a  wife. 
The  wife  has  to  obey  her  husband.  Of  course  she  has.  Every 
wife  has  to.  Some  don't  like  it.  I  can't  say  that  I  liked  it 
very  much  myself.  But  to  think  of  anybody  objecting. 
Why,  it's  shocking !  Nobody  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

I  must  have  flushed  up  to  my  forehead,  for  I  became 
conscious  that  in  my  Aunt  Bridget's  eyes  there  had  been  a 
kind  of  indecency  in  my  conduct. 

"But,  come,"  she  said,  "we  must  be  sensible.  It's  timid- 
ity, that's  what  it  is.  I  was  a  little  timid  myself  when  I 
was  first  married,  but  I  soon  got  over  it.  Once  get  over  your 
timidity  and  you  will  be  all  right.  Sakes  alive,  yes,  you'll 
be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  and  before  this  time  to-morrow 
you'll  wonder  what  on  earth  you  made  all  this  fuss  about." 

I  tried  to  say  that  what  she  predicted  could  never  be, 
because  I  did  not  love  my  husband,  and  therefore  .  .  .  but 
my  Aunt  Bridget  broke  in  on  me,  saying: 

"Mary  O'Neill,  don't  be  a  fool.  Your  maiden  days  are 
over  now,  and  you  ought  to  know  what  your  husband  will  do 
if  you  persist." 

I  jumped  at  the  thought  that  she  meant  he  would  annul 
our  marriage,  but  that  was  not  what  she  was  thinking  of. 

"He'll  find  somebody  else — that's  what  he'll  do.  Serve 
you  right,  too.  You'll  only  have  yourself  to  blame  for  it. 
Perhaps  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  do  the  same,  but  you 
won't.  Women  can't.  He'll  be  happy  enough,  and  you'll 
be  the  only  one  to  suffer,  so  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself. 
Accept  the  situation.  You  may  not  like  your  husband  too 
much.  I  can't  say  I  liked  the  Colonel  particularly.  He  took 
snuff,  and  no  woman  in  the  world  could  keep  him  in  clean 
pocket  handkerchiefs.  But  when  a  sensible  person  has  got 
something  at  stake,  she  puts  up  with  things.  And  that's 
what  you  must  do.  He  who  wants  fresh  eggs  must  raise  his 
own  chickens,  you  know." 

Aunt  Bridget  ran  on  for  some  time  longer,  telling  me  of 
my  father's  anger,  which  was  not  a  matter  for  much  surprise, 
seeing  how  he  had  built  himself  upon  my  marriage,  and  how 
he  had  expected  that  I  should  have  a  child,  a  son,  to  carry 
on  the  family. 

"Do  you  mean  lo  disappoint  him  after  all  he  has  done  for 


MY  HONEYMOON  161 

you?  It  would  be  too  silly,  too  stupid.  You'd  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  island.  So  get  up  and  get 
dressed  and  be  ready  and  willing  to  go  with  his  lordship 
when  he  sails  by  this  afternoon's  steamer." 

"I  can't,"  I  said. 

"You  can't?    You  mean  you  won't?" 

"Very  well,  Auntie,  I  won't." 

At  that  Aunt  Bridget  stormed  at  me  for  several  minutes, 
telling  me  that  if  my  stubborn  determination  not  to  leave 
the  island  with  my  husband  meant  that  I  intended  to  return 
home  she  might  inform  me  at  once  that  I  was  not  wanted 
there  and  I  need  not  come. 

"I've  enough  on  my  hands  in  that  house  already,  what 
with  Betsy  unmarried,  and  your  father  doing  nothing  for  her, 
and  that  nasty  Nessy  MacLeod  making  up  to  him.  You 
ungrateful  minx !  You  are  ruining  everything !  After  all  I  've 
done  for  you  too !  But  no  matter !  If  you  will  make  your  bed 
I  shall  take  care  that  you  lie  on  it." 

With  that,  and  the  peak  of  her  half-moon  bonnet  almost 
dancing  over  her  angry  face,  Aunt  Bridget  flounced  out  of  my 
room. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  I  went  into  the  sitting- 
room,  I  found  my  father's  advocate,  Mr.  Curphy,  waiting  for 
me.  He  looked  down  at  me  with  an  indulgent  and  significant 
smile,  which  brought  the  colour  rushing  back  to  my  face,  put 
me  to  sit  by  his  side,  touched  my  arm  with  one  of  his  large 
white  clammy  hands,  stroked  his  long  brown  beard  with  the 
other,  and  then  in  the  half-reproving  tone  which  a  Sunday- 
school  teacher  might  have  used  to  a  wayward  child,  he  began 
to  tell  me  what  the  consequences  would  be  if  I  persisted  in 
my  present  conduct. 

They  would  be  serious.  The  law  was  very  clear  on  marital 
rights.  If  a  wife  refused  to  live  with  her  husband,  except  on 
a  plea  of  cruelty  or  something  equally  plausible,  he  could 
apply  to  the  court  and  compel  her  to  do  so ;  and  if  she  declined, 
if  she  removed  herself  from  his  abode,  or  having  removed, 
refused  to  return,  the  Court  might  punish  her — it  might  even 
imprison  her. 

"So  you  see,  the  man  is  the  top  dog  in  a  case  like  this,  my 
dear,  and  he  can  compel  the  woman  to  obey  him." 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "that  he  can  use  force  to  compel 
her?" 

"Reasonable  force,  yes.  I  think  that's  so.  And  quite  right, 

L 


162  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

too,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  The  woman  has  entered 
into  a  serious  contract,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  law  to  see 
that  she  fulfills  the  conditions  of  it. ' ' 

I  remembered  how  little  I  had  known  of  the  conditions  of 
the  contract  I  had  entered  into,  but  I  was  too  heart-sick  and 
ashamed  to  say  anything  about  that. 

"Aw  yes,  that's  so/'  said  the  advocate,  "force,  reasonable 
force!  You  may  say  it  puts  a  woman  in  a  worse  position  as 
a  wife  than  she  would  be  if  she  were  a  mistress.  That 's  true, 
but  it's  the  law,  and  once  a  woman  has  married  a  man, 
the  only  escape  from  this  condition  of  submission  is — im- 
prisonment. ' ' 

"Then  I  would  rather  that — a  thousand  times  rather,"  I 
said,  for  I  was  hot  with  anger  and  indignation. 

Again  the  advocate  smiled  indulgently,  patted  my  arm,  and 
answered  me  as  if  I  were  a  child. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  dear,  tut,  tut!  You've  made  a  marriage 
that  is  founded  on  suitability  of  position,  property  and 
education,  and  everything  will  come  right  by  and  by.  Don't 
act  on  a  fit  of  pique  or  spleen,  and  so  destroy  your  happiness, 
and  that  of  everybody  about  you.  Think  of  your  father. 
Remember  what  he  has  done  to  make  this  marriage.  ...  I 
may  tell  you  that  he  has  paid  forty  thousand  pounds  to  dis- 
charge your  husband's  debts  and  undertaken  responsibility 
for  an  allowance  of  six  thousand  a  year  beside.  Do  you 
want  him  to  lose  all  that  money?" 

I  was  so  sick  with  disgust  at  hearing  this  that  I  could 
not  speak,  and  the  advocate,  who,  in  his  different  way,  was 
as  dead  to  my  real  feelings  as  my  husband  had  been,  went 
on  to  say: 

"Come,  be  reasonable.  You  may  have  suffered  some  slight, 
some  indignity.  No  doubt  you  have.  Your  husband  is  proud 
and  he  has  peculiarities  of  temper  which  we  have  all  to 
make  allowances  for.  But  even  if  you  could  establish  a 
charge  of  cruelty  against  him  and  so  secure  a  separation — 
which  you  can't — what  good  would  that  do  you?  None  at 
all — worse  than  none!  The  financial  arrangements  would 
remain  the  same.  Your  father  would  be  a  frightful  loser. 
And  what  would  you  be?  A  married  widow!  The  worst 
condition  in  the  world  for  a  woman — especially  if  she  is 
young  and  attractive,  and  subject  to  temptations.  Ask  any- 
body who  knows — anybody." 

I  felt  as  if  I  would  suffocate  with  shame. 


MY  HONEYMOON  163 

"Come  now,"  said  the  advocate  in  his  superior  way,  taking 
my  hand  as  if  he  were  going  to  lead  me  like  a  child  to  my 
husband,  "let  us  put  an  end  to  this  little  trouble.  His  lord- 
ship is  downstairs  and  he  has  consented — kindly  and  gener- 
ously consented — to  wait  an  hour  for  your  answer.  But  he 
must  leave  the  island  by  the  afternoon  steamer,  and  if  ..." 

"Then  tell  him  he  must  leave  it  without  me,"  I  said,  as 
well  as  I  could  for  the  anger  that  was  choking  me. 

The  advocate  looked  steadily  into  my  face.  I  think  he 
understood  the  situation  at  last. 

"You  mean  that — really  and  truly  mean  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  do,"  I  answered,  and  unable  to  say  or  hear  any  more 
without  breaking  out  on  him  altogether  I  left  the  room. 

THIRTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

DOWN  to  this  moment  I  had  put  on  a  brave  front  though 
my  very  heart  had  been  trembling ;  but  now  I  felt  that  all  the 
weight  of  law,  custom,  parental  authority  and  even  religion 
was  bearing  me  down,  down,  down,  and  unless  help  came  I 
must  submit  in  the  long  run. 

I  was  back  in  the  small  bedroom,  with  my  hot  forehead 
against  the  cold  glass  of  the  window,  looking  out  yet  seeing 
nothing,  when  somebody  knocked  at  the  door,  softly  almost 
timidly.  It  was  Father  Dan,  and  the  sight  of  his  dear  face, 
broken  up  with  emotion,  was  the  same  to  me  as  the  last  plank 
of  a  foundering  ship  to  a  sailor  drowning  at  sea. 

My  heart  was  so  full  that,  though  I  knew  I  ought  not,  I 
threw  my  arms  about  his  neck  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
The  good  old  priest  did  not  put  me  away.  He  smoothed  my 
drooping  head  and  patted  my  shoulders  and  in  his  sweet  and 
simple  way  he  tried  to  comfort  me. 

"Don't  cry!  Don't  worry!  It  will  be  all  right  in  the 
end,  my  child." 

There  was  something  almost  grotesque  in  his  appearance. 
Under  his  soft  clerical  outdoor  hat  he  was  wearing  his  faded 
old  cassock,  as  if  he  had  come  away  hurriedly  at  a  sudden 
call.  I  could  see  what  had  happened — my  family  had  sent 
him  to  reprove  me  and  remonstrate  with  me. 

He  sat  on  a  chair  by  my  bed  and  I  knelt  on  the  floor  at 
his  feet,  just  as  my  mother  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  child  and 
she  was  making  her  confession.  Perhaps  he  thought  of  that 
at  the  same  moment  as  myself,  for  the  golden  light  of  my 


164  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

mother's  memory  lay  always  about  him.  For  some  moments 
we  did  not  speak.  I  think  we  were  both  weeping. 

At  length  I  tried  to  tell  him  what  had  happened — hiding 
nothing,  softening  nothing,  speaking  the  simple  and  naked 
truth.  I  found  it  impossible  to  do  so.  My  odd-sounding 
voice  was  not  like  my  own,  and  even  my  words  seemed  to  be 
somebody  else's.  But  Father  Dan  understood  everything. 

"I  know!  I  know!"  he  said,  and  then,  to  my  great  relief, 
interrupting  my  halting  explanations,  he  gave  his  own  inter- 
pretation of  my  husband's  letter. 

There  was  a  higher  love  and  there  was  a  lower  love  and 
both  were  necessary  to  God's  plans  and  purposes.  But  the 
higher  love  must  come  first,  or  else  the  lower  one  would 
seem  to  be  cruel  and  gross  and  against  nature. 

Nature  was  kind  to  a  young  girl.  Left  to  itself  it  awakened 
her  sex  very  gently.  First  with  love,  which  came  to  her  like 
a  whisper  in  a  dream,  like  the  touch  of  an  angel  on  her 
sleeping  eyelids,  so  that  when  she  awoke  to  the  laws  of  life 
the  mysteries  of  sex  did  not  startle  or  appal  her. 

But  sex  in  me  had  been  awakened  rudely  and  ruthlessly. 
Married  without  love  I  had  been  suddenly  confronted  by  the 
lower  passion.  "What  wonder  that  I  had  found  it  brutal  and 
barbarous  ? 

"That's  it,  my  child!    That's  it!    I  know!    I  know!" 

Then  he  began  to  blame  himself  for  everything,  saying  it 
was  all  his  fault  and  that  he  should  have  held  out  longer. 
When  he  saw  how  things  stood  between  me  and  my  husband  he 
should  have  said  to  my  father,  to  the  Bishop,  and  to  the 
lawyers,  notwithstanding  all  their  bargainings:  "This  mar- 
riage must  not  go  on.  It  will  lead  to  disaster.  It  begins  to 
end  badly." 

"But  now  it  is  all  over,  my  child,  and  there's  no  help 
for  it." 

'I  think  the  real  strength  of  my  resistance  to  Aunt  Bridget's 
coarse  ridicule  and  the  advocate's  callous  remonstrance  must 
have  been  the  memory  of  my  husband 's  threat  when  he  talked 
about  the  possible  annulment  of  our  marriage.  The  thought 
of  that  came  back  to  me  now,  and  half  afraid,  half  ashamed, 
with  a  fluttering  of  the  heart,  I  tried  to  mention  it. 

' '  Is  there  no  way  out  ? "  I  asked. 

"What  way  can  there  be?"  said  Father  Dan.  "God  knows 
I  know  what  pressure  was  put  upon  you ;  but  you  are  married, 
you  have  made  your  vows,  you  have  given  your  promises. 


MY  HONEYMOON  165 

That's  all  the  world  sees  or  cares  about,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law  and  the  Church  you  are  responsible  for  all  that  has 
happened." 

With  my  head  still  buried  in  Father  Dan's  cassock  I  got 
it  out  at  last. 

"But  annulment!  Isn't  that  possible — under  the  circum- 
stances?" I  asked. 

The  good  old  priest  seemed  to  be  too  confused  to  speak  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  explained  that  what  I  hoped  for  was 
quite  out  of  the  question. 

"I  don't  say  that  in  the  history  of  the  Church  marriages 
have  not  been  annulled  on  equally  uncertain  grounds,  but  in 
this  case  the  civil  law  would  require  proof — something  to 
justify  nullity.  Failing  that  there  would  have  to  be  collusion 
either  on  one  side  or  both,  and  that  is  not  possible — not  to 
you,  my  child,  not  to  the  daughter  of  your  mother,  that  dear 
saint  who  suffered  so  long  and  was  silent." 

More  than  ever  now  I  felt  like  a  ship-broken  man  with 
the  last  plank  sinking  under  him.  The  cold  mysterious  dread 
of  my  husband  was  creeping  back,  and  the  future  of  my  life 
with  him  stood  before  me  with  startling  vividness.  In  spite 
of  all  my  struggling  and  fighting  of  the  night  before  I  saw 
myself  that  very  night,  the  next  night,  and  the  next,  and 
every  night  and  day  of  my  life  thereafter,  a  victim  of  the 
same  sickening  terror. 

"Must  I  submit,  then?"  I  said. 

Father  Dan  smoothed  my  head  and  told  me  in  his  soft  voice 
that  submission  was  the  lot  of  all  women.  It  always  had 
been  so  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  perhaps  it  always 
would  be. 

"Remember  the  Epistle  we  read  in  church  yesterday  morn- 
ing: 'Wives  submit  yourselves  to  your  husbands.'  ' 

With  a  choking  sensation  in  my  throat  I  asked  if  he  thought 
I  ought  to  go  away  with  my  husband  when  he  left  the  island 
by  the  afternoon  steamer. 

"I  see  no  escape  from  it,  my  poor  child.  They  sent  me  to 
reprove  you.  I  can't  do  that,  but  neither  can  I  encourage 
you  to  resist.  It  would  be  wrong.  It  would  be  cruel.  It 
would  only  lead  you  into  further  trouble." 

My  mouth  felt  parched,  but  I  contrived  to  say : 

"Then  you  can  hold  out  no  hope  for  me?" 

"God  knows  I  can't." 

"Although  I  do  not  love  this  man  I  must  live  with  him  as 
his  wife?" 


166 

"It  is  hard,  very  hard,  but  there  seems  to  be  no  help  for  it." 

I  rose  to  my  feet,  and  -went  back  to  the  window.  A  wild 
impulse  of  rebellion  was  coming  over  me. 

"I  shall  feel  like  a  bad  woman,"  I  said. 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Father  Dan.  "You  are  married 
to  the  man  anyway." 

"All  the  same  I  shall  feel  like  my  husband's  mistress — 
his  married  mistress,  his  harlot." 

Father  Dan  was  shocked,  and  the  moment  the  words  were 
out  of  my  mouth  I  was  more  frightened  than  I  had  ever  been 
before,  for  something  within  seemed  to  have  forced  them  out 
of  me. 

When  I  recovered  possession  of  my  senses  Father  Dan, 
nervously  fumbling  with  the  silver  cross  that  hung  over  his 
cassock,  was  talking  of  the  supernatural  effect  of  the  sacra- 
ment of  marriage.  It  was  God  Who  joined  people  together, 
and  whom  God  joined  together  no  man  might  put  asunder. 
No  circumstances  either,  no  trial  or  tribulation.  Could  it  be 
thought  that  a  bond  so  sacred,  so  indissoluble,  was  ever  made 
without  good  effect?  No,  the  Almighty  had  His  own  ways 
with  His  children,  and  this  great  mystery  of  holy  wedlock 
was  one  of  them. 

"So  don't  lose  heart,  my  child.  Who  knows  what  may 
happen  yet?  God  works  miracles  now  just  as  He  did  in  the 
old  days.  You  may  come  .  .  .  yes,  you  may  come  to  love 
your  husband,  and  then — then  all  will  be  well." 

Suddenly  out  of  my  despair  and  my  defiance  a  new  thought 
came  to  me.  It  came  with  the  memory  of  the  emotion  I  had 
experienced  during  the  marriage  service,  and  it  thrilled  me 
through  and  through. 

"Father  Dan?"  I  said,  with  a  nervous  cry,  for  my  heart 
was  fluttering  again. 

"What  is  it,  my  child?" 

It  was  hard  to  say  what  I  was  thinking  about,  but  with  a 
great  effort  I  stammered  it  out  at  last.  I  should  be  willing 
to  leave  the  island  with  my  husband,  and  live  under  the  same 
roof  with  him,  and  bear  his  name,  so  that  there  might  be  no 
trouble,  or  scandal,  and  nobody  except  ourselves  might  ever 
know  that  there  was  anything  dividing  us,  any  difference  of 
any  kind  between  us,  if  he,  on  his  part,  would  promise — firmly 
and  faithfully  promise — that  unless  and  until  I  came  to  love 
him  he  would  never  claim  my  submission  as  a  wife. 

While  I  spoke  I  hardly  dared  to  look  at  Father  Dan,  fearing 


MY  HONEYMOON  167 

he  weuld  shake  his  head  again,  perhaps  reprove  me,  perhaps 
laugh  at  me.  But  his  eyes  which  had  been  moist  began  to 
sparkle  and  smile. 

'You  mean  that?"  he  asked. 

'Yes." 

'And  you  will  go  away  with  him  on  that  condition?*' 

'Yes,  yes." 

'Then  he  must  agree  to  it." 

The  pure-minded  old  priest  saw  no  difficulties,  no  dangers, 
no  risks  of  breakdown  in  my  girlish  scheme.  Already  my 
husband  had  got  all  he  had  bargained  for.  He  had  got  my 
father's  money  in  exchange  for  his  noble  name,  and  if  he 
wanted  more,  if  he  wanted  the  love  of  his  wife,  let  him  earn 
it,  let  him  win  it. 

"That's  only  right,  only  fair.  It  will  be  worth  winning, 
too — better  worth  winning  than  all  your  father's  gold  and 
silver  ten  times  over.  I  can  tell  him  that  much  anyway." 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet  in  his  excitement,  the  simple  old 
priest  with  his  pure  heart  and  his  beautiful  faith  in  me. 

"And  you,  my  child,  you'll  try  to  love  him  in  return — 
promise  you  will." 

A  shiver  ran  through  me  when  Father  Dan  said  that — 
a  sense  of  the  repugnance  I  felt  for  my  husband  almost 
stifled  me. 

"Promise  me,"  said  Father  Dan,  and  though  my  face  must 
have  been  scarlet,  I  promised  him 

"That's  right.  That  alone  will  make  him  a  better  man. 
He  may  be  all  that  people  say,  but  who  can  measure  the 
miraculous  influence  of  a  good  woman  T" 

He  was  making  for  the  door. 

"I  must  go  downstairs  now  and  speak  to  your  husband. 
But  hell  agree.  "Why  shouldn't  he?  I  know  he's  afraid  of 
a  public  scandal,  and  if  he  attempts  to  refuse  I'll  tell  him 
that  .  .  .  But  no,  that  will  be  quite  unnecessary.  Good-bye, 
my  child !  If  I  don 't  come  back  you  11  know  that  everything 
has  been  settled  satisfactorily.  You  11  be  happy  yet.  I'm 
sure  you  will.  Ah,  what  did  I  say  about  the  mysterious  power 
of  that  solemn  and  sacred  sacrament?  Good-bye!" 

I  meant  what  I  had  said.  I  meant  to  do  what  I  had 
promised.  God  knows  I  did.  But  does  a  woman  ever  know 
her  own  heart  ?  Or  is  heaven  alone  the  judge  of  it  ? 

At  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  my  husband  left  Elian  for 
England.  I  went  with  him. 


168  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

FORTIETH  CHAPTER 

HAVING  made  my  bargain  I  set  myself  to  fulfil  the  conditions 
of  it.  I  had  faithfully  promised  to  try  to  love  my  husband 
and  I  prepared  to  do  so. 

Did  not  love  require  that  a  wife  should  look  up  to  and 
respect  and  even  reverence  the  man  she  had  married?  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  that  by  shutting  my  eyes  to  my 
husband's  obvious  faults  and  seeing  only  his  better  qualities. 

What  disappointments  were  in  store  for  me !  What  crush- 
ing and  humiliating  disillusionments ! 

On  the  night  of  our  arrival  in  London  we  put  up  at  a 
fashionable  hotel  in  a  quiet  but  well-known  part  of  the  West- 
end,  which  is  inhabited  chiefly  by  consulting  physicians  and 
celebrated  surgeons.  Here,  to  my  surprise,  we  were  imme- 
diately discovered,  and  lines  of  visitors  waited  upon  my  hus- 
band the  following  morning. 

I  thought  they  were  his  friends,  and  a  ridiculous  little  spurt 
of  pride  came  to  me  from  heaven  knows  where  with  the  idea 
that  my  husband  must  be  a  man  of  some  importance  in  the 
metropolis. 

But  I  discovered  they  were  his  creditors,  money-lenders 
and  bookmakers,  to  whom  he  owed  debts  of  "honour"  which 
he  had  been  unable  or  unwilling  to  disclose  to  my  father  and 
his  advocate. 

One  of  my  husband's  visitors  was  a  pertinacious  little  man 
who  came  early  and  stayed  late.  He  was  a  solicitor,  and  my 
husband  was  obviously  in  some  fear  of  him.  The  interviews 
between  them,  while  they  were  closeted  together  morning 
after  morning  in  one  of  our  two  sitting-rooms,  were  long  and 
apparently  unpleasant,  for  more  than  once  I  caught  the  sound 
of  angry  words  on  both  sides,  with  oaths  and  heavy  blows 
upon  the  table. 

But  towards  the  end  of  the  week,  my  husband's  lawyer 
arrived  in  London,  and  after  that  the  conversations  became 
more  pacific. 

One  morning,  as  I  sat  writing  a  letter  in  the  adjoining  room, 
I  heard  laughter,  the  popping  of  corks,  the  jingling  of  glasses, 
and  the  drinking  of  healths,  and  I  judged  that  the  difficult 
and  disagreeable  business  had  been  concluded. 

At  the  close  of  the  interview  I  heard  the  door  opened  and 
my  husband  going  into  the  outer  corridor  to  see  his  visitors 
to  the  lift,  and  then  something  prompted  me — God  alone 
knows  what — to  step  into  the  room  they  had  just  vacated. 


MY  HONEYMOON  169 

It  was  thick  with  tobacco  smoke.  An  empty  bottle  of 
champagne  (with  three  empty  wine  glasses)  was  on  the  table, 
and  on  a  desk  by  the  window  were  various  papers,  including 
a  sheet  of  foolscap  which  bore  a  seal  and  several  signatures, 
and  a  thick  packet  of  old  letters  bound  together  with  a  piece 
of  purple  ribbon. 

Hardly  had  I  had  time  to  recognise  these  documents  when 
my  husband  returned  to  the  room,  and  by  the  dark  expression 
of  his  face  I  saw  instantly  that  he  thought  I  had  looked  at 
them. 

"No  matter!"  he  said,  without  any  preamble.  "I  might 
as  well  tell  you  at  once  and  have  done  with  it." 

He  told  me.  The  letters  were  his.  They  had  been  written 
to  a  woman  whom  he  had  promised  to  marry,  and  he  had  had 
to  buy  them  back  from  her.  Although  for  three  years  he  had 
spent  a  fortune  on  the  creature  she  had  shown  him  no  mercy. 
Through  her  solicitor,  who  was  a  scoundrel,  she  had  threat- 
ened him,  saying  in  plain  words  that  if  he  married  anybody 
else  she  would  take  proceedings  against  him  immediately. 
That  was  why,  in  spite  of  the  storm,  we  had  to  come  up  to 
London  on  the  day  after  our  wedding. 

"Now  you  know,"  said  my  husband.  "Look  here"  (hold- 
ing out  the  sheet  of  foolscap),  "five  thousand  pounds — that's 
the  price  I've  had  to  pay  for  marrying." 

I  can  give  no  idea  of  the  proud  imperiousness  and  the  im- 
pression of  injury  with  which  my  husband  told  his  brutal 
story.  But  neither  can  I  convey  a  sense  of  the  crushing  shame 
with  which  I  listened  to  it.  There  was  not  a  hint  of  any  con- 
sciousness on  his  part  of  my  side  of  the  case.  Not  a  suggestion 
of  the  clear  fact  that  the  woman  he  had  promised  to  marry  had 
been  paid  off  by  money  which  had  come  through  me.  Not  a 
thought  of  the  humiliation  he  had  imposed  upon  his  wife  in 
dragging  her  up  to  London  at  the  demand  of  his  cast-off 
mistress. 

"When  my  husband  had  finished  speaking  I  could  not  utter 
a  word.  I  was  afraid  that  my  voice  would  betray  the  anger 
that  was  boiling  in  me.  But  I  was  also  degraded  to  the  very 
dust  in  my  own  eyes,  and  to  prevent  an  outburst  of  hysterical 
tears  I  ran  back  to  my  room  and  hid  my  face  in  my  pillow. 

What  was  the  good  of  trying  to  make  myself  in  love  with  a 
man  who  was  separated  from  me  by  a  moral  chasm  that  could 
never  be  passed  1  What  was  the  good  ?  What  was  the  good  ? 


170  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

FORTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

Bur  next  morning,  having  had  time  to  think  things  out  in 
my  simple  and  ignorant  way,  I  tried  to  reconcile  myself  to 
my  position.  Remembering  what  Aunt  Bridget  had  said, 
both  before  my  marriage  and  after  it,  about  the  different 
moralities  of  men  and  women,  I  told  myself  I  had  placed 
my  standard  too  high. 

Perhaps  a  husband  was  not  a  superior  being,  to  be  regarded 
with  respect  and  reverence,  but  a  sort  of  grown-up  child  whom 
it  was  the  duty  of  a  wife  to  comfort,  coax,  submit  to  and  serve. 

I  determined  to  do  this.  Still  clinging  to  the  hope  of  falling 
in  love  with  my  husband,  I  set  myself  to  please  him  by  every 
means  within  my  power,  even  to  the  length  of  simulating 
sentiments  which  I  did  not  feel. 

But  what  a  task  I  was  setting  myself!  What  a  steep  and 
stony  Calvary  I  was  attempting  to  climb! 

After  the  degrading  business  with  the  other  woman  had 
been  concluded  I  thought  we  should  have  left  England  imme- 
diately on  the  honeymoon  tour  which  my  husband  had  mapped 
out  for  us,  but  he  told  me  that  would  not  be  convenient  and 
we  must  remain  in  London  a  little  longer.  We  stayed  six 
weeks  altogether,  and  never  did  a  young  wife  pass  a  more 
cheerless  and  weary  time. 

I  had  no  friends  of  my  own  within  reach,  and  to  my  deep 
if  secret  mortification  no  woman  of  my  husband 's  circle  called 
upon  me.  But  a  few  of  his  male  friends  were  constantly  with 
us,  including  Mr.  Eastcliff,  who  had  speedily  followed  us  from 
Elian,  and  a  Mr.  Vivian,  who,  though  the  brother  of  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  seemed  to  me  a  very  vain  and  vapid  person,  with 
the  eyes  of  a  mole,  a  vacant  smile,  a  stupid  expression,  an 
abrupt  way  of  speaking  through  his  teeth,  and  a  shrill  voice 
which  gave  the  impression  of  screeching  against  the  wind. 

With  these  two  men,  and  others  of  a  similar  kind,  we  passed 
many  hours  of  nearly  every  day,  lunching  with  them,  dining 
with  them,  walking  with  them,  driving  with  them,  and  above 
all  playing  bridge  with  them  in  one  of  our  sitting  rooms  in 
the  hotel. 

I  knew  nothing  of  the  game  to  begin  with,  never  having 
touched  a  card  in  my  life,  but  in  accordance  with  the  theories 
which  I  believed  to  be  right  and  the  duties  I  had  imposed 
upon  myself,  I  took  a  hand  with  my  husband  when  he  could 
find  nobody  better  to  be  his  partner. 

The  results  were  very  disheartening.    In  spite  of  my  desire 


MY  HONEYMOON  171 

to  please  I  was  slow  to  learn,  and  my  husband's  impatience 
with  my  mistakes,  which  confused  and  intimidated  me,  led  to 
some  painful  humiliations.  First  he  laughed,  next  he  sneered, 
then  he  snapped  me  up  in  the  midst  of  my  explanations  and 
apologies,  and  finally,  at  a  moment  of  loss,  he  broke  out  on  me 
with  brutal  derision,  saying  he  had  never  had  much  opinion  of 
my  intellect,  but  was  now  quite  sure  that  I  had  no  more  brains 
than  a  rabbit  and  could  not  say  Boo  to  a  goose. 

One  day  when  we  were  alone,  and  he  was  lying  on  the 
couch  with  his  vicious  little  terrier  by  his  side,  I  offered  to 
sing  to  him.  Remembering  how  my  voice  had  been  praised, 
I  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  my  husband  to  see  that 
there  was  something  I  really  could  do.  But  nine  years  in 
a  convent  had  left  me  with  next  to  no  music  but  memories 
of  the  long-breathed  harmonies  of  some  of  the  beautiful 
masses  of  our  Church,  and  hardly  had  I  begun  on  these  when 
my  husband  cried: 

"Oh,  stop,  stop,  for  heaven's  sake  stop,  or  I  shall  think 
we're  attending  a  funeral." 

Another  day  I  offered  to  read  to  him.  The  Reverend  Mother 
used  to  say  I  was  the  best  reader  she  had  ever  heard,  but 
perhaps  it  was  not  altogether  my  husband 's  fault  if  he  formed 
a  different  opinion.  And  indeed  I  cannot  but  think  that  the 
holy  saints  themselves  would  have  laughed  if  they  had  heard 
me  reading  aloud,  in  the  voice  and  intonation  which  I  had 
assumed  for  the  meditations  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  the 
mystic  allusions  to  "certs,"  and  "bookies,"  and  "punters," 
and  ' '  evens, ' '  and  ' '  scratchings, ' '  which  formed  the  substance 
of  the  sporting  journals  that  were  my  husband's  only  liter- 
ature. 

"Oh,  stop  it,  stop  it,"  he  cried  again.  "You  read  the 
'Winning  Post'  as  if  it  were  the  Book  of  Revelation." 

As  time  passed  the  gulf  that  separated  me  from  my  husband 
became  still  greater.  If  I  could  have  entertained  him  with 
any  kind  of  gossip  we  might  have  got  on  better.  But  I  had 
no  conversation  that  interested  him,  and  he  had  little  or  none 
that  I  could  pretend  to  understand.  He  loved  the  town ;  I 
loved  the  country ;  he  loved  the  night  and  the  blaze  of  electric 
lights ;  I  loved  the  morning  and  the  sweetness  of  the  sun. 

At  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  knew  that  his  mind  was  com- 
mon, low  and  narrow,  and  that  his  tastes  were  gross  and  vul- 
gar, but  I  was  determined  to  conquer  the  rep*olsion  I  felt  for 
him. 


172  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

It  was  impossible.  If  I  could  have  struck  one  spark  from 
the  flint  of  his  heart  the  relations  between  us  might  have 
been  different.  If  his  look  could  have  met  my  look  in  a  single 
glance  of  understanding  I  could  have  borne  with  his  im- 
patience and  struggled  on. 

But  nothing  of  this  kind  ever  happened,  and  when  one 
dreary  night  after  grumbling  at  the  servants,  cursing  his  fate 
and  abusing  everybody  and  everything,  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out  saying  he  had  "better  have  married  Lena  [the  other 
woman]  after  all,"  for  in  that  case  he  would  have  had  "some 
sort  of  society  anyway, ' '  the  revulsion  I  had  felt  on  the  night 
of  my  marriage  came  sweeping  over  me  like  a  wave  of  the 
sea,  and  I  asked  myself  again,  "What's  the  good?  What's 
the  good?" 

FORTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

NEVERTHELESS  next  day  I  found  myself  taking  my  husband's 
side  against  myself. 

If  he  had  sacrificed  anything  in  order  to  marry  me  it  was 
my  duty  to  make  it  up  to  him. 

I  resolved  that  I  should  make  it  up  to  him.  I  would  study 
my  husband 's  likes  and  dislikes  in  every  little  thing.  I  would 
share  in  his  pleasures  and  enter  into  his  life.  I  would  show 
him  that  a  wife  was  something  other  and  better  than  any 
hired  woman  in  the  world,  and  that  when  she  cast  in  her  lot 
with  her  husband  it  was  for  his  own  sake  only  and  not  for 
any  fortune  he  could  spend  on  her. 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  what  I'll  do,"  I  thought,  and  I  became 
more  solicitous  of  my  husband 's  happiness  than  if  I  had  really 
and  truly  loved  him. 

A  woman  would  smile  at  the  efforts  which  I  made  in  my 
inexperience  to  make  my  husband  forget  his  cast-off  mistress, 
and  indeed  some  of  them  were  very  childish. 

The  first  was  a  ridiculous  failure. 

My  husband's  birthday  was  approaching  and  I  wished  to 
make  him  a  present.  It  was  difficult  to  know  what  to  select, 
for  I  knew  little  or  nothing  of  his  tastes  or  wants ;  but  walking 
one  day  in  a  street  off  Oxford  Street  I  saw,  in  the  window  of 
a  shop  for  the  sale  of  objects  of  ecclesiastical  vertu,  among 
crosses  and  crucifixes  and  rosaries,  a  little  ivory  ink-stand  and 
paper-holder,  which  was  surmounted  by  a  figure  of  the  Virgin. 

I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  conceive  why  I  thought  this 
would  be  a  suitable  present  for  my  husband,  except  that  the 
face  of  Our  Lady  was  so  young,  so  sweet,  so  beautiful,  and  so 


MY  HONEYMOON  173 

exquisitely  feminine  that  it  seemed  impossible  that  any  man 
in  the  world  should  not  love  her.  But  however  that  might  be 
I  bought  her,  and  carrying  her  home  in  a  cab,  I  set  her  on  my 
husband's  desk  without  a  word,  and  then  stood  by,  like  the 
mother  of  Moses,  to  watch  the  result. 

There  was  no  result — at  first  at  all  events.  My  husband 
was  several  hours  in  the  room  with  my  treasure  without 
appearing  to  be  aware  of  its  presence.  But  towards  evening 
his  two  principal  friends  came  to  play  bridge  with  him,  and 
then,  from  the  ambush  of  my  own  apartments,  I  heard  the  - 
screechy  voice  of  Mr.  Vivian  saying: 

"Dash  it  all,  Jimmy,  you  don't  say  you're  going  to  be  a 
Pape?" 

"Don't  fret  yourself,  old  fellow,"  replied  my  husband. 
"That's  my  wife's  little  flutter.  Dare  say  the  poor  fool  has 
had  to  promise  her  priest  to  make  me  a  'vert.'  ' 

My  next  experiment  was  perhaps  equally  childish  but  cer- 
tainly more  successful. 

Seeing  that  my  husband  was  fond  of  flowers,  and  was 
rarely  without  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  I  conceived  the  idea 
of  filling  his  room  with  them  in  honour  of  his  birthday.  With 
this  view  I  got  up  very  early,  before  anybody  in  the  hotel 
was  stirring,  and  hurried  off  to  Covent  Garden,  through  the 
empty  and  echoing  streets,  while  the  air  of  London  was  fresh 
with  the  breath  of  morning  and  the  big  city  within  its 
high-built  walls  seemed  to  dream  of  the  green  fields  beyond. 

I  arrived  at  the  busy  and  noisy  square  just  as  the  waggons 
were  rolling  in  from  the  country  with  huge  crates  of  red  and 
white  roses,  bright  with  the  sunshine  and  sparkling  with  the 
dew.  Then  buying  the  largest  and  loveliest  and  costliest 
bunch  of  them  (a  great  armful,  as  much  as  I  could  hold), 
I  hurried  back  to  the  hotel  and  set  them  in  vases  and  glasses 
in  every  part  of  my  husband's  room — his  desk,  his  sideboard, 
his  mantelpiece,  and  above  all  his  table,  which  a  waiter  was 
laying  for  breakfast — until  the  whole  place  was  like  a  bridal 
bower. 

"Ah,  this  is  something  like,"  I  heard  my  husband  say  as 
he  came  out  of  his  bedroom  an  hour  or  two  afterwards  with 
his  vicious  terrier  at  his  heels. 

I  heard  no  more  until  he  had  finished  breakfast,  and  then, 
while  drawing  on  his  gloves  for  his  morning  walk,  he  said  to 
the  waiter,  who  was  clearing  the  table. 

"Tell  your  manageress  I  am  much  obliged  to  her  for  the 


174  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

charming  flowers  with  which  she  has  decorated  my  room 
this  morning." 

"But  it  wasn't  the  manageress,  my  lord,"  said  the  waiter. 

"Then  who  was  it?" 

"It  was  her  .  .  .  her  ladyship,"  said  the  waiter. 

"0-oh!"  said  my  husband  in  a  softer,  if  more  insinuating 
tone,  and  a  few  minutes  afterwards  he  went  out  whistling. 

God  knows  that  was  small  reward  for  the  trouble  I  had 
taken,  but  I  was  so  uplifted  by  the  success  of  my  experiment 
that  I  determined  to  go  farther,  and  when  towards  evening  of 
the  same  day  a  group  of  my  husband's  friends  came  to  tell 
him  that  they  had  booked  a  box  at  a  well-known  musical 
comedy  theatre,  I  begged  to  be  permitted  to  join  them. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear!  Brompton  Oratory  would  suit  you 
better,"  said  my  husband,  chucking  me  under  the  chin. 

But  I  persisted  in  my  importunities,  and  at  length  Mr. 
Eastcliff  said: 

"Let  her  come.    Why  shouldn 't  she  ? " 

"Very  well,"  said  my  husband,  pinching  my  cheek.  "As 
you  please.  But  if  you  don't  like  it  don't  blame  me." 

It  did  not  escape  me  that  as  a  result  of  my  change  of  front 
my  husband  had  risen  in  his  own  esteem,  and  that  he  was 
behaving  towards  me  as  one  who  thought  he  had  conquered 
my  first  repugnance,  or  perhaps  triumphantly  ridden  over  it. 
But  in  my  simplicity  I  was  so  fixed  in  my  determination  to 
make  my  husband  forget  the  loss  of  his  mistress  that  I  had 
no  fear  of  his  familiarities  and  no  misgivings  about  his 
mistakes. 

All  that  was  to  come  later,  with  a  fresh  access  of  revulsion 
and  disgust. 

FORTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

I  HAD  seen  enough  of  London  by  this  time  to  know  that  the 
dresses  which  had  been  made  for  me  at  home  were  by  no 
means  the  mode;  but  after  I  had  put  on  the  best-fitting  of  my 
simple  quaker-like  costumes  with  a  string  of  the  family  pearls 
about  my  neck  and  another  about  my  head,  not  all  the  teach- 
ing of  the  good  women  of  the  convent  could  prevent  me  from 
thinking  that  my  husband  and  his  friends  would  have  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  me. 

We  were  a  party  of  six  in  all,  whereof  I  was  the  only 
woman,  and  we  occupied  a  large  box  on  the  first  tier  near  the 
stage,  a  position  of  prominence  which  caused  me  a  certain 


MY  HONEYMOON  175 

embarrassment,  when,  as  happened  at  one  moment  of  inde- 
finable misery,  the  opera  glasses  of  the  people  in  the  dress- 
circle  and  stalls  were  turned  in  our  direction. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  theatre  impressed  me.  Certainly  the 
building  itself  did  not  do  so,  although  it  was  beautifully 
decorated  in  white  and  gold,  for  I  had  seen  the  churches  of 
Rome,  and  in  my  eyes  they  were  much  more  gorgeous. 

Neither  did  the  audience  impress  me,  for  though  I  had 
never  before  seen  so  many  well-dressed  people  in  one  place, 
I  thought  too  many  of  the  men,  when  past  middle  life,  seemed 
fat  and  overfed,  and  too  many  of  the  women,  with  their  plump 
arms  and  bare  shoulders,  looked  as  if  they  thought  of  nothing 
but  what  to  eat  and  what  to  put  on. 

Nor  did  the  performers  impress  me,  for  though  when  the 
curtain  rose,  disclosing  the  stage  full  of  people,  chiefly  girls, 
in  delicate  and  beautiful  toilettes,  I  thought  I  had  never 
before  seen  so  many  lovely  and  happy  faces,  after  a  while, 
when  the  faces  fell  into  repose,  I  thought  they  were  not  really 
lovely  and  not  really  happy,  but  hard  and  strained  and 
painful,  as  if  life  had  been  very  cruel. 

And,  above  all,  I  was  not  impressed  by  the  play,  for  I 
thought,  in  my  ignorance  of  such  productions,  that  I  had 
never  heard  anything  so  frivolous  and  foolish,  and  more 
than  once  I  found  myself  wondering  whether  my  good  nuns, 
if  they  could  have  been  present,  would  not  have  concluded 
that  the  whole  company  had  taken  leave  of  their  senses. 

There  was,  however,  one  thing  which  did  impress  me,  and 
that  was  the  leading  actor.  It  was  a  woman,  and  when  she 
first  came  on  to  the  stage  I  thought  I  had  never  in  my  life 
seen  anybody  so  beautiful,  with  her  lovely  soft  round  figure, 
her  black  eyes,  her  red  lips,  her  pearly  white  teeth,  and  a 
smile  so  sunny  that  it  had  the  effect  of  making  everybody  in 
the  audience  smile  with  her. 

But  the  strange  thing  was — I  could  not  account  for  it — 
that  after  a  few  minutes  I  thought  her  extremely  ugly  and 
repellent,  for  her  face  seemed  to  be  distorted  by  malice  and 
envy  and  hatred  and  nearly  every  other  bad  passion. 

Nevertheless  she  was  a  general  favourite,  for  not  only  was 
she  applauded  before  she  did  anything,  but  everything  she 
said,  though  it  was  sometimes  very  silly,  was  accompanied 
by  a  great  deal  of  laughter,  and  everything  she  sang,  though 
her  voice  was  no  great  matter,  was  followed  by  a  chorus  of 
applause. 


176  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Seeing  this,  and  feeling  that  her  appearance  had  caused  a 
flutter  of  interest  in  the  box  behind  me,  I  laughed  and 
applauded  also,  in  accordance  with  the  plan  I  had  prepared 
for  myself,  of  sharing  my  husband's  pleasures  and  entering 
into  his  life,  although  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  really 
thought  the  joy  was  not  very  joyful  or  the  mirth  very  merry. 

Thig  went  on  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  then  a  strange  thing 
happened.  I  was  leaning  forward  on  the  velvet  barrier  of  the 
box  in  front  of  me,  laughing  and  clapping  my  hands  with  the 
rest,  when  all  at  once  I  became  aware  that  the  lady  had 
wheeled  about,  and,  walking  down  the  stage  in  the  direction 
of  our  box,  was  looking  boldly  back  at  me. 

I  could  not  at  first  believe  it  to  be  so,  and  even  now  I 
cannot  say  whether  it  was  something  in  her  face,  or  something 
whispered  at  my  back  which  flashed  it  upon  my  mind  that 
this  was  the  woman  my  husband  ought  to  have  married, 
the  woman  whose  place  I  had  taken,  the  woman  of  the  foolscap 
document  and  the  letters  in  the  purple  ribbon. 

After  that  I  could  play  my  poor  little  part  no  longer,  and 
though  I  continued  to  lean  on  the  yellow  velvet  of  the  barrier 
in  front  of  me  I  dropped  my  eyes  as  often  as  that  woman 
was  on  the  stage,  and  hoped  and  prayed  for  the  end  of  the 
performance. 

It  came  at  length  with  a  crash  of  instruments  and  voices, 
and  a  few  minutes  afterwards  my  husband  and  I  were  in  the 
cab  on  our  way  back  to  the  hotel. 

I  was  choking  with  mingled  anger  and  shame — anger  at 
my  husband  for  permitting  me  to  come  to  a  place  in  which  I 
could  be  exposed  to  a  public  affront  from  his  cast-off  mistress, 
shame  at  the  memory  of  the  pitiful  scheme  for  entering 
into  his  life  which  had  fallen  to  such  a  welter  of  wreck  and 
ruin. 

But  my  husband  himself  was  only  choking  with  laughter. 

"It  was  as  good  as  a  play,"  he  said.  "Upon  my  soul  it 
was!  I  never  saw  anything  funnier  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  life." 

That  served  him,  repeated  again  and  again,  until  we  reached 
the  hotel,  when  he  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  to  be  sent  upstairs, 
and  then  shook  with  suppressed  laughter  as  we  went  up  in 
the  lift. 

Coming  to  our  floor  I  turned  towards  my  bedroom,  wishing 
to  be  alone  with  my  outraged  feelings,  but  my  husband 
drew  me  into  one  of  our  sitting-rooms,  telling  me  he  had 
something  to  say. 


MY  HONEYMOON  177 

He  put  me  to  sit  in  an  arm-chair,  threw  off  his  overcoat, 
lit  a  cigarette,  as  well  as  he  could  for  the  spurts  and  gusts 
of  his  laughter,  and  then,  standing  back  to  the  fire-place, 
with  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  his  coat-tail  over  his  arm. 
he  told  me  the  cause  of  his  merriment. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  was  Lena,"  he  said.  "The 
good-looking  girl  in  the  scarlet  dress  and  the  big  diamonds. 
She  spotted  me  the  moment  she  stepped  on  to  the  stage. 
Must  have  guessed  who  you  were,  too.  Did  you  see  how 
she  looked  at  you?  Thought  I  had  brought  you  there  to 
walk  over  her.  I'm  sure  she  did!" 

There  was  another  gust  of  laughter  and  then — 

"She'd  been  going  about  saying  I  had  married  an  old 
frump  for  the  sake  of  her  fortune,  and  when  she  saw  that 
you  could  wipe  her  off  the  face  of  the  earth  without  a  gown 
that  was  worth  wearing,  she  was  ready  to  die  with  fury." 

There  was  another  gust  of  laughter  through  the  smoke  that 
was  spurting  from  his  mouth  and  then — 

"And  you,  too,  my  dear!  Laughing  and  applauding!  She 
thought  you  were  trying  to  crow  over  her!  On  her  own 
particular  barn-door,  too !  Upon  my  soul,  it  was  too  amusing. 
I  wonder  she  didn't  throw  something  at  you.  She's  like  that 
when  she's  in  her  tantrums." 

The  waiter  came  in  with  the  wine  and  my  husband  poured 
out  a  glass  for  me. 

"Have  a  drink.  No?  Well,  here's  to  your  health,  my 
dear  ...  I  can't  get  over  it.  I  really  can't.  Lena's  too 
funny  for  anything.  "Why,  what  else  do  you  think  she's 
been  saying?  She's  been  saying  I'll  come  back  to  her  yet. 
Yes,  'I'll  give  him  six  months  to  come  crawling  back  to  me,' 
she  said  to  Eastcliff  and  Vivian  and  some  of  the  other  fellows 
at  the  Club.  Wonder  if  she  thinks  so  now  ?  .  .  .  I  wonder  ? ' ' 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette,  drank  another  glass  of  the 
wine,  came  close  up  to  me  and  said  in  a  lower  tone,  which 
made  my  skin  creep  as  with  cold, 

"Whether  she's  right  or  wrong  depends  on  you,  though." 

"On  me?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  That's  only  natural.  One  may  have 
all  the  goodwill  in  the  world,  but  a  man 's  a  man,  you  know. ' ' 

I  felt  my  lips  quivering  with  anger,  and  in  an  effort  to  con- 
trol myself  I  rose  to  go,  but  my  husband  drew  me  back  into 
my  chair  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  it. 

"Don't  go  yet.  By  the  way,  dear,  I've  never  thanked 
you  for  the  beautiful  flowers  with  which  you  decorated  my 

M 


178  THE   WOMAN   THOU   GAVEST  ME 

room  this  morning.     Charming!     But  I   always  knew  you 
would  soon  come  round  to  it." 

"Come  round  to  what?"  I  said,  but  it  was  just  as  if  some- 
body else  were  speaking. 

"You  know.  Of  course  you  know.  When  that  simple  old 
priest  proposed  that  ridiculous  compact  I  agreed,  but  I  knew 
quite  well  that  it  would  soon  break  down.  Not  on  my 
side,  though.  Why  should  it?  A  man  can  afford  to  wait. 
But  I  felt  sure  you  would  soon  tire  of  your  resistance.  And 
you  have,  haven't  you?  Oh,  I'm  not  blind.  I've  seen  what's 
been  going  on,  though  I've  said  nothing  about  it." 

Again  I  tried  to  rise,  and  again  my  husband  held  me  to 
my  seat,  saying: 

"Don't  be  ashamed.  There's  no  reason  for  that.  You 
were  rather  hard  on  me,  you  know,  but  I  'm  going  to  forget  all 
about  it.  Why  shouldn't  I?  I've  got  the  loveliest  little 
woman  in  the  world,  so  I  mean  to  meet  her  half  way,  and 
she's  going  to  get  over  her  convent-bred  ideas  and  be  my 
dear  little  darling  wife.  Now  isn't  she?" 

I  could  have  died  of  confusion  and  the  utter  degradation 
of  shame.  To  think  that  my  poor  efforts  to  please  him, 
my  vain  attempts  to  look  up  to  him  and  reverence  him, 
my  bankrupt  appeals  to  the  spiritual  woman  in  me  that  I 
might  bring  myself  to  love  him,  as  I  thought  it  was  my  duty 
to  do,  should  have  been  perverted  by  his  gross  and  vulgar 
mind  into  overtures  to  the  animal  man  in  him — this  was  more 
than  I  could  bear.  I  felt  the  tears  gushing  to  my  eyes,  but  I 
kept  them  back,  for  my  self-pity  was  not  so  strong  as  my  wrath. 

I  rose  this  time  without  being  aware  of  his  resistance. 

"Let  me  go  to  bed,"  I  said. 

"Certainly!     Most  certainly,  my  dear,  but  ..." 

"Let  me  go  to  bed,"  I  said  again,  and  at  the  next  moment 
I  stepped  into  my  room. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  me.  I  saw  in  a  mirror  in 
front  what  was  taking  place  behind  me. 

My  husband  was  standing  where  I  had  left  him  with  a 
look  first  of  amazement  and  then  of  rage. 

"I  can't  understand  you,"  he  said.  "Upon  my  soul  I 
can't!  There  isn't  a  man  in  the  world  who  could." 

After  that  he  strode  into  his  own  bedroom  and  clashed  the 
door  after  him. 

"Oh,  what's  the  good?"  I  thought  again. 

It  was  impossible  to  make  myself  in  love  with  my  husband. 
It  was  no  use  trying. 


MT  HONEYMOON  179 

FORTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

I  MUST  leave  it  to  those  who  know  better  than  I  do  the  way 
to  read  the  deep  mysteries  of  a  woman's  heart,  to  explain 
how  it  came  to  pass  that  the  only  result  of  this  incident  was 
to  make  me  sure  that  if  we  remained  in  London  much  longer 
my  husband  would  go  back  to  the  other  woman,  and  to  say 
why  (seeing  that  I  did  not  love  him)  I  should  have  become 
feverishly  anxious  to  remove  him  from  the  range  of  this 
temptation. 

Yet  so  it  was,  for  the  very  next  morning,  I  wrote  to  my 
father  saying  I  had  been  unwell  and  begging  him  to  use  his 
influence  with  my  husband  to  set  out  on  the  Egyptian  trip 
without  further  delay. 

My  father's  answer  was  prompt.  "What  he  had  read  be- 
tween the  lines  of  my  letter  I  do  not  know;  what  he  said 
was  this — 

' '  Daughter — Certainly !  I  am  writing  to  son-in-law  telling 
him  to  quit  London  quick.  I  guess  you've  been  too  long 
there  already.  And  while  you  are  away  you  can  draw  on 
me  yourself  for  as  much  as  you  please,  for  where  it  is  a 
matter  of  money  you  must  never  let  nobody  walk  over  you. 

Yours— &c." 

The  letter  to  my  husband  produced  an  immediate  result. 
Within  twenty-four  hours,  the  telephone  was  at  work  with 
inquiries  about  trains  and  berths  on  steamers;  and  within 
a  week  we  were  on  our  way  to  Marseilles  to  join  the  ship 
that  was  to  take  us  to  Port  Said. 

Our  state-rooms  were  on  the  promenade  deck  of  the 
steamer  with  a  passage-way  between  them.  This  admitted  of 
entirely  separate  existences,  which  was  well,  for  knowing  or 
guessing  my  share  in  our  altered  arrangements,  my  husband 
had  become  even  more  morose  than  before,  and  no  conversa- 
tion could  be  sustained  between  us. 

He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  his  state-room, 
grumbling  at  the  steward,  abusing  his  valet,  beating  his 
bad-tempered  terrier  and  cursing  the  luck  that  had  brought 
him  on  this  senseless  voyage. 

More  than  ever  now  I  felt  the  gulf  that  divided  us.  I 
could  not  pass  one  single  hour  with  him  in  comfort.  My  life 


180  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

was  becoming  as  cold  as  an  empty  house,  and  I  was  beginning 
to  regret  the  eagerness  with  which  I  had  removed  my  husband 
from  a  scene  in  which  he  had  at  least  lived  the  life  of  a 
rational  creature,  when  an  unexpected  event  brought  me  a 
thrill  of  passing  pleasure. 

Our  seats  in  the  saloon  were  at  the  top  of  the  doctor's 
table,  and  the  doctor  himself  was  a  young  Irishman  of  three 
or  four-and-twenty,  as  bright  and  breezy  as  a  March  morn- 
ing and  as  racy  of  the  soil  as  new-cut  peat. 

Hearing  that  I  was  from  Elian  he  started  me  by  asking 
if  by  chance  I  knew  Martin  Conrad. 

"Martin  Conrad?"  I  repeated,  feeling  (I  hardly  knew 
why)  as  if  a  rosy  veil  were  falling  over  my  face  and  neck. 

"Yes,  Mart  Conrad,  as  we  call  him.  The  young  man  who 
has  gone  out  as  doctor  with  Lieutenant  .  .  .  .  's  expedition 
to  the  South  Pole?" 

A  wave  of  tender  feeling  from  my  childhood  came  surging 
up  to  my  throat  and  I  said: 

' '  He  was  the  first  of  my  boy  friends — in  fact  the  only  one. ' ' 

The  young  doctor's  eyes  sparkled  and  he  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  to  throw  down  his  soup-spoon,  jump  up,  and  grasp 
me  by  both  hands. 

"God  bless  me,  is  that  so?"  he  said. 

It  turned  out  that  Martin  and  he  had  been  friends  at 
Dublin  University.  They  had  worked  together,  "roomed"  to- 
gether, and  taken  their  degrees  at  the  same  time. 

' '  So  you  know  Mart  ?  Lord  alive,  the  way  things  come  out ! " 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Martin  was  not  only  his  friend  but 
his  hero.  He  talked  of  him  with  a  passionate  love  and 
admiration  with  which  men,  whatever  they  feel,  rarely  speak 
of  each  other. 

Martin  was  the  salt  of  the  earth.  He  was  the  finest  fellow 
and  the  staunchest  friend  and  the  bravest-hearted  chap  that 
walked  under  the  stars  of  God. 

"The  greatest  chum  I  have  in  the  world,  too,  and  by  the 
Holy  Immaculate  Mother  I'm  destroyed  at  being  away  from 
him." 

It  was  like  music  to  hear  him  speak.  A  flood  of  joy  went 
sweeping  through  me  at  every  word  of  praise  he  gave  to 
Martin.  And  yet — I  cannot  explain  why,  unless  it  was  the 
woman  in  me,  the  Irish-woman,  or  something  like  it — but  I 
began  to  depreciate  Martin,  in  order  to  "hoosh"  him  on, 
so  that  he  might  say  more  on  the  same  subject. 


MY  HONEYMOON  181 

"Then  he  did  take  his  degree,"  I  said.  "He  was  never 
very  clever  at  his  lessons,  I  remember,  and  I  heard  that  he 
was  only  just  able  to  scrape  through  his  examinations. ' ' 

The  young  doctor  fell  to  my  bait  like  a  darling.  With  a 
flaming  face  and  a  nervous  rush  of  racy  words  which  made 
me  think  that  if  I  closed  my  eyes  I  should  be  back  on  the 
steps  of  the  church  in  Rome  talking  to  Martin  himself,  he 
told  me  I  was  mistaken  if  I  thought  his  friend  was  a  num- 
skull, for  he  had  had  "the  biggest  brain-pan  in  College 
Green,"  and  the  way  he  could  learn  things  when  he  wanted 
to  was  wonderful. 

He  might  be  a  bit  shaky  in  his  spelling,  and  perhaps  he 
couldn't  lick  the  world  in  Latin,  but  his  heart  was  always 
in  exploring,  and  the  way  he  knew  geography,  especially  the 
part  of  it  they  call  the  "Unknown,"  the  Arctic,  and  the 
Antarctic,  and  what  Charcot  had  done  there,  and  Biscoe  and 
Bellamy  and  D  'Urville  and  Greely  and  Nansen  and  Shackleton 
and  Peary,  was  enough  to  make  the  provost  and  professors 
look  like  fools  of  the  earth  by  the  side  of  him. 

""Why,  what  do  you  think?"  said  the  doctor.  "When  he 
went  to  London  to  apply  for  his  billet,  the  Lieutenant  said 
to  him;  'You  must  have  been  down  there  before,  young 
man.'  'No  such  luck,'  said  Martin.  'But  you  know  as 
much  about  the  Antarctic  already  as  the  whole  boiling  of  us 
put  together,'  said  the  Lieutenant.  Yes,  by  St.  Patrick  and 
St.  Thomas,  he's  a  geographer  any  way." 

I  admitted  that  much,  and  to  encourage  the  doctor  to  go 
on  I  told  him  where  I  had  seen  Martin  last,  and  what  he  had 
said  of  his  expedition. 

"In  Borne  you  say?"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  note  of 
jealousy.  "You  beat  me  there  then.  I  saw  him  off  from 
London,  though.  A  few  of  us  Dublin  boys,  being  in  town 
at  the  time,  went  down  to  Tilbury  to  see  him  sail,  and  when 
they  were  lifting  anchor  and  the  tug  was  hitching  on,  we  stood 
on  the  pier — sixteen  strong — and  set  up  some  of  our  college 
songs.  'Stop  your  noising,  boys,'  said  he,  'the  Lieutenant 
will  be  hearing  you. '  But  not  a  bit  of  it.  We  sang  away  as 
long  as  we  could  see  him  going  out  with  the  tide,  and  then 
we  went  back  in  the  train,  smoking  our  pipes  like  so  many 
Vauxhall  chimneys,  and  narra  a  word  out  of  the  one  of  us. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  there  are  some  men  like  that.  They  come  like 
the  stars  of  night  and  go  like  the  light  of  heaven.  Same  as 


182  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

there  are  some  women  who  walk  the  world  like  the  sun,  and 
leave  the  grass  growing  green  wherever  their  feet  have  trod." 

It  was  very  ridiculous,  I  did  not  then  understand  why  it 
should  be  so,  but  the  tears  came  gushing  into  my  eyes  while 
the  doctor  spoke,  and  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  preserve 
my  composure. 

What  interpretation  my  husband  put  upon  my  emotion 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  saw  that  his  face  darkened,  and  when 
the  doctor  turned  to  him  to  ask  if  he  also  knew  Martin  he 
answered  curtly  and  brusquely, 

"Not  I.    No  loss  either,  I  should  say." 

"No  loss?"  said  the  doctor.  "Show  me  the  man  under 
the  stars  of  God  that's  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  Martin  Conrad, 
and  by  the  angel  Gabriel  I'll  go  fifty  miles  out  of  my  way 
to  put  a  sight  on  him." 

More  than  ever  after  this  talk  about  Martin  Conrad  I  was 
feeling  defenceless,  and  at  the  mercy  of  my  husband's  wishes 
and  whims,  when  something  happened  which  seemed  to 
change  his  character  altogether. 

The  third  day  out,  on  a  bright  and  quiet  morning,  we 
called  at  Malta,  and  while  my  husband  went  ashore  to  visit 
some  friends  in  the  garrison,  I  sat  on  deck  watching  the  life 
of  the  little  port  and  looking  at  the  big  warships  anchored 
in  the  bay. 

A  Maltese  woman  came  on  board  to  sell  souvenirs  of  the 
island,  and  picking  out  of  her  tray  a  tiny  twisted  thing  in 
coral,  I  asked  what  it  was. 

"That's  a  charm,  my  lady,"  said  the  woman. 

"A  charm  for  what?" 

"To*  make  my  lady's  husband  love  her." 

I  felt  my  face  becoming  crimson,  but  my  heart  was  sore, 
so  in  my  simplicity  I  bought  the  charm  and  was  smuggling 
it  into  my  bag  when  I  became  aware  that  one  of  my  fellow- 
passengers,  a  lady,  was  looking  r'own  at  me. 

She  was  a  tall,  singularly  handsome  woman,  fashionably 
and  (although  on  shipboard)  almost  sumptuously  dressed. 
A  look  in  her  face  was  haunting  me  with  a  memory  I  could 
not  fix  when  she  stooped  and  said: 

"Aren't  you  Mary  O'Neill?" 

The  voice  completed  the  identification,  and  I  knew  who 
it  was.  It  was  Alma  Lier. 

She  was  now  about  seven-and-twenty  and  in  the  prime 
of  her  young  womanhood.  Her  beautiful  auburn  hair  lay 


MY  HONEYMOON  183 

low  over  her  broad  forehead,  almost  descending  to  her  long 
sable-coloured  eyebrows.  Her  cheeks  were  very  white, 
(rather  beyond  the  whiteness  of  nature,  I  thought),  and  her 
lips  were  more  than  commonly  red,  with  the  upper  one  a 
little  thin  and  the  lower  slightly  set  forward.  But  her  eyes 
were  still  her  distinguishing  feature,  being  larger  and  blacker 
than  before  and  having  that  vivid  gaze  that  looked  through 
and  through  you  and  made  you  feel  that  few  women  and  no 
man  in  the  world  would  have  the  power  to  resist  her. 

Her  movements  were  almost  noiseless,  and  as  she  sank  into 
the  chair  by  my  side  there  was  a  certain  over-sweetness  in 
the  soft  succulent  tones  of  the  voice  with  which  she  began 
to  tell  me  what  had  happened  to  her  since  I  had  seen  her  last. 

It  was  a  rather  painful  story.  After  two  or  three  years 
in  a  girls '  college  in  her  own  country  she  had  set  out  with  her 
mother  for  a  long  tour  of  the  European  capitals.  In  Berlin, 
at  what  was  falsely  called  a  Charity  Ball,  she  had  met  a  young 
Kussian  Count  who  was  understood  to  be  rich  and  related  to 
one  of  the  Grand  Ducal  families.  Against  the  protests  of  her 
father  (a  shrewd  American  banker),  she  had  married  the 
Count,  and  they  had  returned  to  New  York,  where  her  mother 
had  social  ambitions. 

There  they  had  suffered  a  serious  shock.  It  turned  out 
that  her  husband  had  deceived  them,  and  that  he  was  really 
a  poor  and  quite  nameless  person,  only  remotely  related 
to  the  family  he  claimed  to  belong  to. 

Nevertheless  Alma  had  "won  out"  at  last.  By  digging 
deep  into  her  father's  treasury  she  got  rid  of  her  treacherous 
husband,  and  going  "way  out  west,"  she  had  been  able,  in 
due  time,  to  divorce  him. 

Since  then  she  had  resumed  her  family  name,  being  known 
as  Madame  Lier,  and  now  she  was  on  her  way  to  Egypt  to 
spend  the  season  at  Cairo. 

"And  you?"  she  said.  "You  stayed  long  at  the  convent 
—yes?" 

I  answered  that  I  had,  and  then  in  my  fluttering  voice 
(for  some  of  the  old  spell  of  her  presence  had  come  sweeping 
back  upon  me)  I  replied  one  by  one  to  the  questions  she 
asked  about  the  Reverend  Mother,  the  "Reverend  Mother 
Mildred,"  Sister  Angela  and  Father  Giovanni,  not  to  speak 
of  myself,  whom  she  had  always  thought  of  as  "Margaret 
Mary"  because  I  had  looked  so  innocent  and  nun-like. 

"And   now   you   are   married!"   she   said.      "Married   so 


.  184  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

splendidly,  too!  We  heard  all  about  it.  Mother  was  so 
interested.  What  a  lucky  girl  you  are!  Everybody  says 
your  husband  is  so  handsome  and  charming.  He  is,  isn  't  he  ? " 

I  was  doing  my  utmost  to  put  the  best  face  upon  my 
condition  without  betraying  the  facts  or  simulating  senti- 
ments which  I  could  not  feel,  when  a  boat  from  the  shore 
pulled  up  at  the  ship's  side,  and  my  husband  stepped  on  to 
the  deck. 

In  his  usual  morose  manner  he  was  about  to  pass  without 
speaking  on  his  way  to  his  state-room,  when  his  eyes  fell  on 
Alma  sitting  beside  me.  Then  he  stopped  and  looked  at  us, 
and,  stepping  up,  he  said,  in  a  tone  I  had  never  heard  from 
him  before: 

' '  Mary,  my  dear,  will  you  not  present  me  to  your  friend  ? ' ' 

I  hesitated,  and  then  with  a  quivering  of  the  lips  I  did  so. 
But  something  told  me  as  I  introduced  my  husband  to  Alma, 
and  Alma  to  my  husband,  and  they  stood  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  holding  each  other's  hands  (for  Alma  had 
risen  and  I  was  sitting  between  them),  that  this  was  the  most 
momentous  incident  of  my  life  thus  far — that  for  good  or  ill 
my  hour  had  struck  and  I  could  almost  hear  the  bell. 

FORTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

FROM  that  hour  forward  my  husband  was  a  changed  man. 
His  manner  to  me,  so  brusque  before,  became  courteous,  kind, 
almost  affectionate.  Every  morning  he  would  knock  at  the 
door  of  my  state-room  to  ask  if  I  had  slept  well,  or  if  the 
movement  of  the  steamer  had  disturbed  me. 

His  manner  to  Alma  was  charming.  He  was  up  before 
breakfast  every  day,  promenading  the  deck  with  her  in  the 
fresh  salt  air.  I  would  slide  back  my  window  and  hear  their 
laughter  as  they  passed,  above  the  throb  of  the  engines  and 
the  wash  of  the  sea.  Sometimes  they  would  look  in  upon  me 
and  joke,  and  Alma  would  say: 

"And  how's  Margaret  Mary  this  morning?" 

Our  seats  in  the  saloon  had  been  changed.  Now  we  sat  with 
Alma  at  the  Captain's  table,  and  though  I  sorely  missed  the 
doctor's  racy  talk  about  Martin  Conrad  I  was  charmed  by 
Alma's  bright  wit  and  the  fund  of  her  personal  anecdotes. 
She  seemed  to  know  nearly  everybody.  My  husband  knew 
everybody  also,  and  their  conversation  never  flagged. 

Something  of  the  wonderful  and  worshipful  feeling  I  had 


MY  HONEYMOON  185 

had  for  Alma  at  the  Sacred  Heart  came  back  to  me,  and  as 
for  my  husband  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  seeing  him  for  the 
first  time. 

He  persuaded  the  Captain  to  give  a  dance  on  our  last 
night  at  sea,  so  the  awnings  were  spread,  the  electric  lights 
were  turned  on,  and  the  deck  of  the  ship  became  a  scene  of 
enchantment. 

My  husband  and  Alma  led  off.  He  danced  beautifully  and 
she  was  dressed  to  perfection.  Not  being  a  dancer  myself  I 
stood  with  the  Captain  in  the  darkness  outside,  looking  in  on 
them  in  the  bright  and  dazzling  circle,  while  the  moon-rays 
were  sweeping  the  waters  like  a  silver  fan  and  the  little 
waves  were  beating  the  ship's  side  with  friendly  pats. 

I  was  almost  happy.  In  my  simplicity  I  was  feeling  grate- 
ful to  Alma  for  having  wrought  this  extraordinary  change,  so 
that  when,  on  our  arrival  at  Port  Said,  my  husband  said, 

"Your  friend  Madame  Lier  has  made  no  arrangements 
for  her  rooms  at  Cairo — hadn't  I  better  telegraph  to  our 
hotel,  dear?"  I  answered,  "Yes,"  and  wondered  why  he  had 
asked  me. 

Our  hotel  was  an  oriental  building,  situated  on  an  island 
at  the  further  side  of  the  Nile.  Formerly  the  palace  of  a 
dead  Khedive,  who  had  built  it  in  honour  of  the  visit  of  an 
Empress,  it  had  a  vast  reception  hall  with  a  great  staircase. 

There,  with  separated  rooms,  as  in  London,  we  remained 
for  three  months.  I  was  enthralled.  Too  young  and  in- 
experienced to  be  conscious  of  the  darker  side  of  the  picture 
before  me,  I  found  everything  beautiful.  I  was  seeing 
fashionable  life  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was  entrancing. 

Lovely  and  richly-dressed  ladies  in  silk,  velvet,  lace,  and  no 
limit  of  jewellery — the  dark  French  women,  the  blonde 
German  women,  the  stately  English  women,  and  the  Ameri- 
can women  with  their  flexuous  grace.  And  then  the  British 
soldiers  in  their  various  uniforms,  the  semi-Turks  in  their 
red  tarbooshes,  and  the  diplomats  of  all  nationalities,  Italian, 
Austrian,  French,  German — what  a  cosmopolitan  world  it 
was,  what  a  meeting-place  of  all  nations! 

Every  hour  had  its  interest,  but  I  liked  best  the  hour  of  tea 
on  the  terrace,  for  that  was  the  glorious  hour  of  woman,  when 
every  condition  invested  her  dress  with  added  beauty  and  her 
smile  with  greater  charm. 

Such  a  blaze  of  colour  in  the  sunshine!  Such  a  sea  of 
muslin,  flowers,  and  feathers!  Such  lovely  female  figures 


186  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

in  diaphanous  clouds  of  toilettes,  delicate  as  gossamer  and 
varied  as  the  colours  in  the  rainbow!  They  were  like  a 
living  bouquet,  as  they  sat  under  the  shade  of  the  verandah, 
with  the  green  lawns  and  the  palm  trees  in  front,  the  red- 
coated  orchestra  behind,  and  the  noiseless  forms  of  swarthy 
Bedouins  and  Nubians  moving  to  and  fro. 

Although  I  had  been  brought  up  in  such  a  different  world 
altogether  I  could  not  help  being  carried  away  by  all  this 
beauty.  My  senses  burgeoned  out  and  my  heart  seemed  to 
expand. 

As  for  Alma  and  my  husband,  they  seemed  to  belong  to  the 
scene  of  themselves.  She  would  sit  at  one  of  the  tea-tables, 
swishing  away  the  buzzing  flies  with  a  little  whip  of  cord  and 
cowries,  and  making  comments  on  the  crowd  in  soft  undertones 
which  he  alone  seemed  to  catch.  Her  vivid  and  searching 
eyes,  with  their  constant  suggestion  of  laughter,  seemed  to 
be  picking  out  absurdities  on  every  side  and  finding  nearly 
everybody  funny. 

She  found  me  funny  also.  My  innocence  and  my  convent- 
bred  ideas  were  a  constant  subject  of  jest  with  her. 

"What  does  our  dear  little  Margaret  Mary  think  of  that?" 
she  would  say  with  a  significant  smile,  at  sights  that  seemed 
to  me  quite  harmless. 

After  a  while  I  began  to  have  a  feeling  of  indefinable  un- 
easiness about  Alma.  She  was  daily  redoubling  her  cordial- 
ity, always  calling  me  her  ' '  dearest  sweetest  girl, ' '  and  ' '  the 
oldest  friend  she  had  in  the  world."  But  little  by  little  I 
became  conscious  of  a  certain  commerce  between  her  and  my 
husband  in  which  I  had  no  part.  Sometimes  I  saw  her  eyes 
seeking  his,  and  occasionally  I  heard  them  exchange  a  few 
words  about  me  in  French,  which  (because  I  did  not  speak  it, 
being  uncertain  of  my  accent)  they  thought  I  did  not  under- 
stand. 

Perhaps  this  helped  to  sharpen  my  wits,  for  I  began  to  see 
that  I  had  gone  the  wrong  way  to  work  with  my  husband. 
Instead  of  trying  to  make  myself  fall  in  love  with  my  husband, 
I  should  have  tried  to  make  my  husband  fall  in  love  with  me. 

When  I  asked  myself  how  this  was  to  be  done  I  found  one 
obvious  answer — I  must  become  the  sort  of  woman  my  hus- 
band admired  and  liked ;  in  short  I  must  imitate  Alma. 

I  resolved  to  do  this,  and  after  all  that  has  happened  since 
I  feel  a  little  ashamed  to  tell  of  the  efforts  I  made  to  play  a 
part  for  which  I  was  so  ill-fitted  by  nature  and  education. 


MY  HONEYMOON  187 

Some  of  them  were  silly  enough  perhaps,  but  some  were 
almost  pathetic,  and  I  am  not  afraid  that  any  good  woman 
will  laugh  at  the  futile  shifts  I  was  put  to,  in  my  girlish 
ignorance,  to  make  my  husband  love  me. 

"I  must  do  it,"  I  thought.    "I  must,  I  must!" 

FORTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

HITHERTO  I  had  attended  to  myself,  but  now  I  determined 
to  have  a  maid.  I  found  one  without  much  difficulty.  Her 
name  was  Price.  She  was  a  very  plain  woman  of  thirty, 
with  piercing  black  eyes ;  and  when  I  engaged  her  she  seemed 
anxious  above  all  else  to  make  me  understand  that  she  "never 
saw  anything." 

I  soon  discovered  that  she  saw  everything,  especially  the 
relations  between  myself  and  my  husband,  and  that  she  put 
her  own  interpretation  (not  a  very  flattering  one)  on  our 
separated  apartments.  She  also  saw  the  position,  of  Alma, 
and  putting  her  own  interpretation  upon  that  also,  she 
tortured  me  with  many  pin-pricks. 

Under  the  guidance  of  my  maid  I  began  to  haunt  the  shops 
of  the  dressmakers,  the  milliners  and  the  jewellers.  It  did 
not  require  the  memory  of  my  father's  letter  to  make  me 
spend  his  money — I  spent  it  like  water.  Feeling  ashamed  of 
my  quaker-cut  costumes  (Alma  had  a  costume  for  every  day 
of  the  week,  and  wore  a  large  gold  snake  on  her  arm),  I 
bought  the  most  costly  toilettes,  and  loaded  myself  with 
bracelets,  rings  and  necklaces. 

I  was  dressing  for  my  husband,  and  for  him  I  did  many 
things  I  had  never  dreamt  of  doing  before.  For  him  I  filed 
my  nails,  put  cream  on  my  skin,  perfume  on  my  handker- 
chief, and  even  rouge  on  my  lips.  Although  I  did  not  allow 
myself  to  think  of  it  so,  I  was  running  a  race  with  Alma. 

My  maid  knew  that  before  I  did,  and  the  first  night  she 
put  me  into  one  of  my  uncomfortable  new  gowns  she  stood 
off  from  me  and  said : 

"His  lordship  must  be  a  strange  gentleman  if  he  can 
resist  you  now." 

I  felt  ashamed,  yet  pleased  too,  and  went  downstairs  with 
a  certain  confidence. 

The  result  was  disappointing.  My  husband  smiled  rather 
condescendingly,  and  though  Alma  praised  me  beyond 
measure  I  saw  that  she  was  secretly  laughing  as  she  said : 


188  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Our  Margaret  Mary  is  coming  out,  isn't  she?" 

Nevertheless  I  persevered.  Without  too  much  prepara- 
tion for  so  perilous  an  enterprise,  I  threw  myself  into  the 
gaieties  of  Cairo,  attending  polo  matches,  race-meetings, 
picnics  at  the  Pyramids,  dances  at  the  different  hotels,  and  on 
the  island  of  Roda,  where  according  to  tradition,  Pharaoh's 
daughter  found  Moses  in  the  bulrushes. 

I  think  I  may  say  that  I  drew  the  eyes  of  other  men  upon 
me,  particularly  those  of  the  colonel  commanding  on  the 
Citadel,  a  fine  type  of  Scotsman,  who  paid  me  the  most 
worshipful  attention.  But  I  thought  of  nobody  but  my  hus- 
band, being  determined  to  make  him  forget  Alma  and  fall 
in  love  with  me. 

It  was  a  hopeless  task,  and  I  had  some  heart-breaking 
hours.  One  day,  calling  at  a  jeweller's  to  see  a  diamond 
necklace  which  I  greatly  coveted,  I  was  told  in  confidence 
that  my  husband  had  been  pricing  it,  but  had  had  to  give  it 
up  because  it  was  a  thousand  francs  too  dear  for  him.  I  was 
foolish  enough  to  pay  the  thousand  francs  myself,  under  a 
pledge  of  secrecy,  and  to  tell  the  jeweller  to  send  the  necklace 
to  my  husband,  feeling  sure  in  my  simplicity  that  it  had  been 
meant  for  me. 

Next  night  I  saw  it  on  Alma's  neck,  and  could  have  died 
of  mortification  and  shame. 

I  daresay  it  was  all  very  weak  and  very  childish,  but  I 
really  think  my  last  attempt,  if  rather  ridiculous,  was  also 
very  pitiful. 

Towards  the  end  of  our  stay  the  proprietors  of  the  hotel 
gave  a  Cotillon.  As  this  was  the  event  of  the  season,  and 
nearly  every  woman  was  giving  a  dinner  in  honour  of  it,  I 
resolved  that  I  too  would  give  one,  inviting  the  gayest  of  the 
gay  acquaintances  I  had  made  in  Cairo. 

Feeling  that  it  would  be  my  last  battle,  and  that  so  much 
depended  upon  it,  I  dressed  myself  with  feverish  care,  in  a 
soft  white  satin  gown,  which  was  cut  lower  than  I  had  ever 
worn  before,  with  slippers  to  match,  a  tight  band  of  pearls 
about  my  thnoat  and  another  about  my  head. 

When  Price  had  finished  dressing  me  she  said: 

"Well,  if  his  lordship  prefers  anybody  else  in  the  world 
to-night  I  shan't  know  where  he  puts  his  eyes." 

The  compliment  was  a  crude  one,  but  I  had  no  time  to 
think  of  that,  for  my  heart  was  fluttering  with  hopes  and 
fear*,  and  I  think  any  woman  would  forgive  me  under  the 


MY  HONEYMOON  189 

circumstances  if  I  told  myself,  as  I  passed  the  tall  mirrors 
on  the  stairs,  that  I  too  was  beautiful. 

The  dining-room  was  crowded  when  I  entered  it  with  my 
guests,  and  seeing  that  we  were  much  observed  it  flashed  upon 
me  that  my  husband  and  I  had  become  a  subject  of  gossip. 
Partly  for  that  reason  I  strangled  the  ugly  thing  that  was 
writhing  in  my  bosom,  and  put  Alma  (who  had  flown  to  me 
with  affectionate  rapture)  next  to  my  husband,  and  the 
colonel  commanding  on  the  Citadel  in  the  seat  beside  me. 

Throughout  the  dinner,  which  was  very  long,  I  was  very 
nervous,  and  though  I  did  my  best  to  keep  up  conversation 
with  the  colonel,  I  knew  quite  well  that  I  was  listening  to 
what  was  being  said  at  the  other  side  of  my  big  round  table, 
and  as  often  as  any  mention  was  made  of  "Margaret  Mary" 
I  heard  it. 

More  than  once  Alma  lifted  her  glass  with  a  gracious  nod 
and  smile,  crying,  "Mary  dearest!"  and  then  in  another 
moment  gave  my  husband  one  of  her  knowing  glances  which 
seemed  to  me  to  say,  "Look  at  that  foolish  little  wife  of 
yours!" 

By  the  time  we  returned  to  the  hall  for  coffee  we  were 
rather  a  noisy  party,  and  even  the  eyes  of  the  ladies  betrayed 
the  fact  that  they  had  dined.  The  talk,  which  had  grown 
louder,  was  also  a  little  more  free,  and  God  forgive  me,  I 
joined  in  it,  being  feverishly  anxious  to  outdo  Alma,  and  be 
looked  upon  as  a  woman  of  the  world. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock,  the  red-coated  orchestra  began  to 
play  a  waltz,  and  then  the  whole  variegated  company  of 
ladies,  soldiers,  and  diplomats  stood  up  to  dance,  and  the 
colonel  asked  me  to  join  him. 

I  was  ashamed  to  tell  him  that  I  had  never  danced  except 
with  a  schoolgirl,  so  I  took  his  hand  and  started.  But  hardly 
had  we  begun,  when  I  made  mistakes,  which  I  thought  every- 
body saw  (I  am  sure  Alma  saw  them),  and  before  we  had 
taken  many  turns  my  partner  had  to  stop,  whereupon  I  re- 
tired to  my  seat  with  a  forced  laugh  and  a  sense  of  confusion. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  when  they  began  the  Cotillon,  which 
Alma  and  my  husband  led  with  supreme  self-possession.  As 
one  of  the  hostesses  I  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the  square,  and 
when  I  was  taken  out  I  made  further  mistakes,  which  also 
Alma  saw  and  communicated  by  smiles  to  my  husband. 

Before  the  Cotillon  came  to  an  end  the  night  was  far 
spent  and  then  the  company,  which  had  become  very  boisterous, 


190  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

began  to  look  for  some  new  excitement,  no  matter  how  foolish. 
One  or  other  started  "turkey  trot"  and  "grizzly  bear"  and 
finally  Alma,  with  memories  of  the  winter  sports  at  St.  Moritz, 
proposed  that  they  should  toboggan  down  the  great  staircase. 

The  suggestion  was  welcomed  with  a  shout,  and  a  broad 
board  was  immediately  laid  on  the  first  long  flight  of  stairs 
for  people  to  slide  on. 

Soldiers  went  first,  and  then  there  were  calls  for  the  ladies, 
when  Alma  took  her  turn,  tucking  her  dress  under  her  at  the 
top  and  alighting  safely  on  her  feet  at  the  bottom.  Other 
ladies  followed  her  example,  with  similar  good  fortune,  and 
then  Alma,  who  had  been  saying  "Such  fun!  Such  lots  of 
fun ! "  set  up  a  cry  of  ' '  Margaret  Mary. ' ' 

I  refused  at  first,  feeling  ashamed  of  even  looking  at  such 
unwomanly  folly,  but  something  Alma  said  to  my  husband 
and  something  that  was  conveyed  by  my  husband's  glance 
at  me  set  my  heart  afire  and,  poor  feverish  and  entangled 
fool  that  I  was,  I  determined  to  defy  them. 

So  running  up  to  the  top  and  seating  myself  on  the  tobog- 
gan I  set  it  in  motion.  But  hardly  had  I  done  so  when  it 
swayed,  reeled,  twisted  and  threw  me  off,  with  the  result  that 
I  rolled  downstairs  to  the  bottom. 

Of  course  there  we're  shrieks  of  laughter,  and  if  I  had  been 
in  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  place  I  suppose  I  should  have 
laughed  too,  and  there  would  have  been  an  end  of  the 
matter.  But  I  had  been  playing  a  part,  a  tragic  part,  and 
feeling  that  I  had  failed  and  covered  myself  with  ridicule, 
I  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion. 

I  thought  my  husband  would  be  angry  with  me,  and  feel 
compromised  by  my  foolishness,  but  he  was  not;  he  was 
amused,  and  when  at  last  I  saw  his  face  it  was  running  in 
rivulets  from  the  laughter  he  could  not  restrain. 

That  was  the  end  of  all  things,  and  when  Alma  came  up  to 
me,  saying  everything  that  was  affectionate  and  insincere, 
about  her  "poor  dear  unfortunate  Margaret  Mary"  (only 
women  know  how  to  wound  each  other  so),  I  brushed  her 
aside,  went  off  to  my  bedroom,  and  lay  face  down  on  the  sofa, 
feeling  that  I  was  utterly  beaten  and  could  fight  no  more. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  my  husband  came  in,  and  though 
I  did  not  look  up  I  heard  him  say,  in  a  tone  of  indulgent 
sympathy  that  cut  me  to  the  quick: 

"You've  been  playing  the  wrong  part,  my  child.  A 
Madonna,  yes,  but  a  Venus,  no!  It's  not  your  metier." 


MY  HONEYMOON  191 

' '  What 's  the  good  ?  What 's  the  good  ?  What 's  the  good  ? ' ' 
I  asked  myself. 

I  thought  my  heart  was  broken. 

FORTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

WITH  inexpressible  relief  I  heard  the  following  day  that  we 
were  to  leave  for  Rome  immediately. 

Alma  was  to  go  with  us,  but  that  did  not  matter  to  me  in 
the  least.  Outside  the  atmosphere  of  this  place,  so  artificial, 
so  unrelated  to  nature,  her  power  over  my  husband  would  be 
gone.  Once  in  the  Holy  City  everything  would  be  different. 
Alma  would  be  different,  I  should  be  different,  above  all 
my  husband  would  be  different.  I  should  take  him  to  the 
churches  and  basilicas;  I  should  show  him  the  shrines  and 
papal  processions,  and  he  would  see  me  in  my  true  "part" 
at  last! 

But  what  a  deep  disappointment  awaited  me! 

On  reaching  Rome  we  put  up  at  a  fashionable  hotel  in  the 
new  quarter  of  the  Ludovisi,  and  although  that  was  only  a 
few  hundred  yards  from  the  spot  on  which  I  had  spent  nine 
happy  years  it  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world  altogether. 
Instead  of  the  church  domes  and  the  monastery  bells,  there 
were  the  harsh  clang  of  electric  trams,  the  thrum  and  throb  of 
automobiles,  the  rattle  of  cars  and  the  tramp  of  soldiers. 

Then  I  realised  that  there  were  two  Romes — an  old  Rome 
and  a  new  one,  and  that  the  Rome  we  had  come  to  hardly 
differed  from  the  Cairo  we  had  left  behind. 

There  was  the  same  varied  company  of  people  of  all  na- 
tions, English,  Americans,  French,  German ;  the  same  nomad 
tribes  of  the  rich  and  dissolute,  pitching  their  tents  season  by 
season  in  the  sunny  resorts  of  Europe;  the  same  aimless 
society,  the  same  debauch  of  fashion,  the  same  callous  and 
wicked  luxury,  the  same  thirst  for  selfish  pleasures,  the  same 
busy  idleness,  the  same  corruption  of  character  and  sex. 

This  made  me  very  unhappy,  but  from  first  to  last  Alma 
was  in  the  highest  spirits.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  in  Rome 
that  spring,  and  everybody  seemed  to  be  known  either  to  her 
or  to  my  husband.  For  Alma's  sake  we  were  invited  every- 
where, and  thus  we  saw  not  only  the  life  of  the  foreign  people 
of  the  hotels  but  that  of  a  part  (not  the  better  part)  of  the 
Roman  aristocracy. 

Alma  was  a  great  success.    She  had  the  homage  of  all  the 


192  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

men,  and  being  understood  to  be  rich,  and  having  the  gift  of 
making  every  man  believe  he  was  her  special  favourite,  she  was 
rarely  without  a  group  of  Italian  noblemen  about  her  chair. 

With  sharper  eyes  the  Italian  women  saw  that  her  real 
reckoning  lay  with  my  husband,  but  they  seemed  to  think  no 
worse  of  her  for  that.  They  seemed  to  think  no  worse  of  him 
either.  It  was  nothing  against  him  that,  having  married  me 
(as  everybody  appeared  to  know)  for  the  settlement  of  his 
financial  difficulties,  he  had  transferred  his  attentions,  even 
on  his  honeymoon,  to  this  brilliant  and  alluring  creature. 

As  for  me,  I  was  made  to  realise  that  I  was  a  person  of  a 
different  class  altogether.  When  people  wished  to  be  kind 
they  called  me  spirituelle,  and  when  they  were  tempted  to 
be  the  reverse  they  voted  me  insipid. 

As  a  result  I  became  very  miserable  in  this  company,  and 
I  can  well  believe  that  I  may  have  seemed  awkward  and  shy 
and  stupid  when  I  was  in  some  of  their  grey  old  palaces  full 
of  tapestry  and  bronze,  for  I  sometimes  found  the  talk  there 
so  free  (especially  among  the  women)  that  the  poisoned 
jokes  went  quivering  through  me. 

Things  I  had  been  taught  to  think  sacred  were  so  often 
derided  that  I  had  to  ask  myself  if  it  could  be  Rome,  my 
holy  and  beloved  Rome — this  city  of  license  and  unbelief. 

But  Alma  was  entirely  happy,  especially  when  the  talk 
turned  on  conjugal  fidelity,  and  the  faithful  husband  was 
held  up  to  ridicule.  This  happened  very  often  in  one  house 
we  used  to  go  to — that  of  a  Countess  of  ancient  family  who 
was  said  to  have  her  husband  and  her  lover  at  either  side  of 
her  when  she  sat  down  to  dinner. 

She  was  a  large  and  handsome  person  of  middle  age,  with 
a  great  mass  of  fair  hair,  and  she  gave  me  the  feeling  that  in 
her  case  the  body  of  a  woman  was  inhabited  by  the  soul  of 
a  man. 

She  christened  me  her  little  Irish  bambino,  meaning  her 
child;  and  one  night  in  her  drawing-room,  after  dinner,  be- 
fore the  men  had  joined  us,  she  called  me  to  her  side  on  the 
couch,,  lit  a  cigarette,  crossed  her  legs,  and  gave  us  with 
startling  candour  her  views  of  the  marriage  bond. 

"What  can  you  except,  you  women?"  she  said.  "You 
run  after  the  men  for  their  titles — they've  very  little  else, 
except  debts,  poor  things — and  what  is  the  result?  The  first 
result  is  that  though  you  have  bought  them  you  belong  to 


MY  HONEYMOON  193 

them.    Yes,  TOUT  husband  owns  his  beautiful  woman,  just  as 
he  owns  his  beautiful  horse  or  his  beautiful  dog." 

This  was  so  pointed  that  I  felt  my  face  growing  crimson, 
but  Alma  and  the  other  women  only  laughed,  so  the  Countess 
went  on: 

""What  then?  Once  in  a  blue  moon  each  goes  his  and  her 
own  way  without  sin.  You  agree  to  a  sort  of  partnership  for 
mutual  advantage  in  which  you  live  together  in  chastity 
under  the  same  roof.  "What  a  life!  "What  an  ice-house!" 

Again  the  other  women  laughed,  but  I  felt  myself  blushing 
deeply. 

"But  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  is  quite  otherwise.  The 
business  purpose  served,  each  is  open  to  other  emotions. 
The  man  becomes  unfaithful,  and  the  woman,  if  she  has 
any  spirit,  pays  him  out  tit  for  tat — and  why  shouldn't 
she?" 

After  that  I  could  bear  no  more,  and  before  I  knew  what  I 
was  saying  I  blurted  out: 

' '  But  I  find  that  wrong  and  wicked.  Infidelity  on  the  part 
of  the  man  does  not  justify  infidelity  in  the  woman.  The 
prayer-book  says  so." 

Alma  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  Countess  smiled  and 
continued : 

"Once  in  a  hundred  years  there  comes  a  great  passion — 
Dante  and  Beatrice,  Petrarch  and  Laura,  The  woman  meets 
the  right  man  too  late.  What  a  tragedy!  "What  a  daily  and 
hourly  crucifixion !  Unless,"  said  the  Countess  with  emphasis, 
"she  is  prepared  to  renounce  the  law  and  reject  society  and 
live  a  life  of  complete  emancipation.  But  in  a  Catholic 
country,  where  there  is  no  divorce,  what  woman  can  afford 
to  do  that?  Nobody  in  the  higher  classes  can — especially  if 
she  has  to  sacrifice  her  title.  So  the  wise  woman  avoids 
scandal,  keeps  her  little  affair  with  her  lover  to  herself,  and 
.  .  .  and  that's  marriage,  my  dears." 

A  twitter  of  approval,  led  by  Alma,  came  from  the  other 
women,  but  I  was  quivering  with  anger  and  I  said : 

"Then  marriage  is  an  hypocrisy  and  an  imposture.  If  I 
found  I  loved  somebody  better  than  my  husband,  I  should  go 
to  him  in  spite  of  the  law,  and  society,  and  title  and  .  .  . 
and  everything. " 

"Of  course  you  would,  my  dear,"  said  the  Countess,  smiling 
at  me  as  at  a  child,  ' '  but  that 's  because  you  are  such  a  sweet, 
simple,  innocent  little  Irish  bambino." 

N 


194  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

It  must  have  been  a  day  or  two  after  this  that  we  were 
invited  to  the  Roman  Hunt.  I  had  no  wish  to  go,  but  Alma 
who  had  begun  to  use  me  in  order  to  "save  her  face"  in  rela- 
tion to  my  husband,  induced  me  to  drive  them  out  in  a  motor- 
car to  the  place  on  the  Campagna  where  they  were  to  mount 
their  horses. 

"Dear  sweet  girl!"  said  Alma.  "How  could  we  possibly 
go  without  you?" 

It  was  Sunday,  and  I  sat  between  Alma  in  her  riding  habit 
and  my  husband  in  his  riding  breeches,  while  we  ran  through 
the  Porta  San  Giovanni,  and  past  the  osterie  where  the 
pleasure-loving  Italian  people  were  playing  under  the  pergolas 
with  their  children,  until  we  came  to  the  meeting-ground  of 
the  Hunt,  by  the  Trappist  monastery  of  Tre  Fontane. 

A  large  company  of  the  Roman  aristocracy  were  gathered 
there  with  their  horses  and  hounds,  and  they  received  Alma 
and  my  husband  with  great  cordiality.  What  they  thought  of 
me  I  do  not  know,  except  that  I  was  a  childish  and  complacent 
wife ;  and  when  at  the  sound  of  the  horn  the  hunt  began,  and 
my  husband  and  Alma  went  prancing  off  with  the  rest,  with- 
out once  looking  back,  I  asked  myself  in  my  shame  and  distress 
if  I  could  bear  my  humiliation  much  longer. 

But  then  came  a  moment  of  unexpected  pleasure.  A 
cheerful  voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  car  said : 

"Good  morning,  Lady  Raa." 

It  was  the  young  Irish  doctor  from  the  steamer.  -His  ship 
had  put  into  Naples  for  two  days,  and,  like  Martin  Conrad 
before  my  marriage,  he  had  run  up  to  look  at  Rome. 

"But  have  you  heard  the  news?"  he  cried. 

"What  news?" 

"About  the  South  Pole  Expedition — they're  on  their  way 
home. ' ' 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes,  they  reached  New  Zealand  on  Saturday  was  a  week." 

"And     .     .     .     and     .     .     .     and  Martin  Conrad?" 

"He's  well,  and  what's  better,  he  has  distinguished  him- 
self." 

"  I     ...     I     ...     I  knew  he  would. ' ' 

"So  did  I !  The  way  I  was  never  fearing  that  if  they  gave 
Mart  half  a  chance  he  would  come  out  top !  Do  or  die — that 
was  his  watch- word. " 

"I  know!    I  know!" 

His  eyes  were  sparkling  and  so  I  suppose  were  mine,  while 


MY  HONEYMOON  195 

with  a  joyous  rush  of  racy  words,  (punctuated  by  me  with 
"Yes,"  "Yes,"  "Yes")  he  told  of  a  long  despatch  from  the 
Lieutenant  published  by  one  of  the  London  papers,  in  which 
Martin  had  been  specially  mentioned — how  he  had  been  put  in 
command  of  some  difficult  and  perilous  expedition,  and  had 
worked  wonders. 

"How  splendid!  How  glorious!  How  perfectly  magnifi- 
cent ! "  I  said. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  the  doctor,  and  for  a  few  moments  more 
we  bandied  quick  questions  and  replies  like  children  playing 
at  battledore  and  shuttlecock.  Then  he  said: 

"But  I'm  after  thinking  it's  mortal  strange  I  never  heard 
him  mention  you.  There  was  only  one  chum  at  home  he  used 
to  talk  about  and  that  was  a  man — a  boy,  I  mean.  Mally  he 
was  calling  him — that's  short  for  Maloney,  I  suppose." 

"For  Mary,"  I  said. 

"Mary,  is  it?  "Why,  by  the  saints,  so  it  is!  Where  in  the 
name  of  St.  Patrick  has  been  the  Irish  head  at  me  that  I  never 
thought  of  that  before  ?  And  you  were  .  .  .  Yes  ?  Well, 
by  the  powers,  ye've  a  right  to  be  proud  of  him,  for  he  was 
thinking  pearls  and  diamonds  of  you.  I  was  mortal  jealous 
of  Mally,  I  remember.  ' Mally 's  a  stunner,'  he  used  to  say. 
'Follow  you  anywhere,  if  you  wanted  it,  in  spite  of  the  devil 
and  hell.'" 

The  sparkling  eyes  were  growing  misty  by  this  time  but 
the  woman  in  me  made  me  say — I  couldn't  help  it — 

"I  dare  say  he's  had  many  girl  friends  since  my  time, 
though?" 

' '  Narra  a  one.  The  girls  used  to  be  putting  a  glime  on  him 
in  Dublin — they're  the  queens  of  the  world  too,  those  Dublin 
girls — but  never  a  skute  of  the  eye  was  he  giving  to  the  one  of 
them.  I  used  to  think  it  was  work,  but  maybe  it  wasn't 
.  .  .  maybe  it  was.  .  .  ." 

I  dare  not  let  him  finish  what  I  saw  he  was  going  to  say — 
I  didn't  know  what  would  happen  to  me  if  he  did — so  I 
jumped  in  by  telling  him  that,  if  he  would  step  into  the  car,  I 
would  drivt  him  back  to  Rome. 

He  did  so,  and  all  the  way  he  talked  of  Martin,  his  courage 
and  resource  and  the  hardships  he  had  gone  through,  until 
(with  backward  thoughts  of  Alma  and  my  husband  riding 
away  over  the  Campagna)  my  heart,  which  had  been  leaping 
like  a  lamb,  began  to  ache  and  ache. 

We  returned  by  the  Old  Appian  Way,  where  the  birds  were 


196  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

building  their  nests  among  the  crumbling  tombs,  through 
the  Porta  San  Paolo,  and  past  the  grave  of  the  "young 
English  poet"  of  whom  I  have  always  thought  it  was  not  so 
sad  that  he  died  of  consumption  as  in  the  bitterness  of  a 
broken  heart. 

All  this  time  I  was  so  much  at  home  with  the  young  Irish 
doctor,  who  was  Martin's  friend,  that  it  was  not  until  I  was 
putting  him  down  at  his  hotel  that  I  remembered  I  did  not 
even  know  his  name. 

It  was  0  'Sullivan. 

FORTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

EVERY  day  during  our  visit  to  Rome  I  had  reminded  myself 
of  the  Reverend  Mother's  invitation  to  call  on  her,  and  a 
sense  of  moral  taint  had  prevented  me,  but  now  I  determined 
to  see  her  at  least  by  going  to  Benediction  at  her  Convent 
church  the  very  next  day. 

It  happened,  however,  that  this  was  the  time  when  the 
Artists'  Club  of  Rome  were  giving  a  Veglione  (a  kind  of 
fancy-dress  ball),  and  as  Alma  and  my  husband  desired  to  go 
to  it,  and  were  still  in  the  way  of  using  me  to  keep  themselves 
in  countenance,  I  consented  to  accompany  them  on  condition 
that  I  did  not  dress  or  dance,  and  that  they  would  go  with  me 
to  Benediction  the  following  day. 

"Dear  sweet  girl!"  said  Alma.  "We'll  do  whatever  you 
like.  Of  course  we  will." 

I  wore  my  soft  satin  without  any  ornaments,  and  my 
husband  merely  put  scarlet  facings  on  the  lapels  of  his  evening 
coat,  but  Alma  was  clad  in  a  gorgeous  dress  of  old  gold,  with 
Oriental  skirts  which  showed  her  limbs  in  front  but  had  a  long 
train  behind,  and  made  her  look  like  a  great  vampire  bat. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  we  reached  the  theatre,  but 
already  the  auditorium  was  full,  and  so  well  had  the  artists 
done  their  work  of  decoration,  making  the  air  alive  with 
floating  specks  of  many-coloured  lights,  like  the  fire-flies  at 
Nemi,  that  the  scene  was  one  of  enchantment. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
walls  was  the  street,  with  the  clanging  electric  bells  and  people 
hurrying  by  with  their  collars  up,  for  the  night  was  cold,  and 
it  had  begun  to  rain  as  we  came  in,  and  one  poor  woman,  with 
a  child  under  her  shawl,  was  standing  by  the  entrance  trying 
to  sell  evening  papers. 


MY  HONEYMOON  197 

I  sat  alone  in  a  box  on  the  ground  tier  while  Alma  and  my 
husband  and  their  friends  were  below  on  the  level  of  the 
poltroni  (the  stalls)  that  had  been  arranged  for  the  dancing, 
which  began  immediately  after  we  arrived  and  went  on  with- 
out a  break  until  long  after  midnight. 

Then  there  was  supper  on  the  stage,  and  those  who  did  not 
eat  drank  a  good  deal  until  nearly  everybody  seemed  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  alcohol.  As  a  consequence  many  of  the 
people,  especially  some  of  the  women  (not  good  women  I 
fear),  seemed  to  lose  all  control  of  themselves,  singing  snatches 
of  noisy  songs,  sipping  out  of  the  men's  glasses,  taking  the 
smoke  of  cigarettes  out  of  the  men's  mouths,  sitting  on  the 
men's  knees,  and  even  riding  astride  on  the  men's  arms  and 
shoulders. 

I  bore  these  sights  as  long  as  I  could,  making  many  fruitless 
appeals  to  my  husband  to  take  me  home ;  and  I  was  just  about 
to  leave  of  myself,  being  sick  of  the  degradation  of  my  sex, 
when  a  kind  of  rostrum,  with  an  empty  chair  on  top  of  it, 
was  carried  in  on  the  shoulders  of  a  number  of  men. 

This  was  for  the  enthronement  of  the  Queen  of  Beauty,  and 
as  it  passed  round  the  arena,  with  the  mock  judges  in  paper 
coronets,  walking  ahead  to  make  their  choice,  some  of  the 
women,  lost  to  all  sense  of  modesty,  were  shouting  "Take 
me!  Take  me!" 

I  felt  sure  they  would  take  Alma,  so  I  reached  forward  to 
get  a  better  view  of  her,  where  she  stood  below  my  box;  but 
as  they  approached  her,  with  the  chair  still  empty,  I  saw  her 
make  a  movement  in  my  direction  and  say  something  to  the 
judges  about  "the  little  nun,"  which  made  my  husband  nod 
his  head  and  then  laugh  uproariously. 

At  the  next  moment,  before  I  knew  what  they  were  doing, 
six  or  seven  men  jumped  into  my  box,  lifted  me  on  to  the 
rostrum  and  placed  me  in  the  chair,  whereupon  the  whole 
noisy  company  in  the  theatre  broke  into  wild  shouts  of  saluta- 
tion and  pelted  me  with  flowers  and  confetti. 

If  there  was  any  pride  there  was  more  mortification  in  the 
position  to  which  Alma  and  my  husband  had  exposed  me,  for 
as  I  was  being  carried  round  the  arena,  with  the  sea  of  foam- 
ing faces  below  me,  all  screaming  out  of  their  hot  and  open 
mouths,  I  heard  the  men  cry: 

"Smile,  Signorina!" 

"Not  so  serious,  Mademoiselle!" 

It  would  do  no  good  to  say  what  memories  of  other  scenes 


198  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

flashed  back  on  my  mind  as  I  was  being  borne  along  in  the 
mad  procession.  I  felt  as  if  it  would  last  for  ever.  But  it 
came  to  an  end  at  length,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  released,  I 
begged  my  husband  again  to  take  me  home,  and  when  he  said, 
"Not  yet;  well  all  be  going  by-and-by, "  I  stole  away  by 
myself,  found  a  cab,  and  drove  back  to  the  hotel. 

The  day  was  dawning  as  I  passed  through  the  stony  streets, 
and  when  I  reached  my  room,  and  pulled  down  my  dark 
green  blinds,  the  bell  of  the  Capuchin  monastery  in  the  Via 
Veneto  was  ringing  and  the  monks  were  saying  the  first  of 
their  offices. 

I  must  have  been  some  time  in  bed,  hiding  my  hot  face  in 
the  bed-clothes,  when  Price,  my  maid,  came  in  to  apologise  for 
not  having  seen  me  come  back  alone.  The  pain  of  the  woman 's 
scrutiny  was  more  than  I  could  bear  at  that  moment,  so  I 
tried  to  dismiss  her,  but  I  could  not  get  her  to  go,  and  at  last 
she  said : 

"If  you  please,  my  lady,  I  want  to  say  something." 

I  gave  her  no  encouragement,  yet  she  continued. 

"I  daresay  it's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth,  but  I'm 
bound  to  say  it." 

Still  I  said  nothing,  yet  she  went  on : 

"His  Lordship  and  Madame  have  also  arrived.  .  .  .  They 
came  back  half  an  hour  ago.  And  just  now  ...  I  saw 
his  lordship  .  .  .  coming  out  of  Madame 's  room." 

' '  Go  away,  woman,  go  away, ' '  I  cried  in  the  fierce  agony  of 
my  shame,  and  she  went  out  at  last,  closing  the  door  noisily 
behind  her. 

We  did  not  go  next  day  to  Benediction  at  the  Reverend 
Mother's  church.  But  late  the  same  night,  when  it  was  quite 
dark,  I  crept  out  of  my  room  into  the  noisy  streets,  hardly 
knowing  where  my  footsteps  were  leading  me,  until  I  found 
myself  in  the  piazza  of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

It  was  quiet  enough  there.  Only  the  Carabinieri  were 
walking  on  the  paved  way  with  measured  steps,  and  the  bell 
of  the  Dominican  monastery  was  slowly  ringing  under  the 
silent  stars.  I  could  see  the  light  on  the  Pope's  loggia  at  the 
Vatican  and  hear  the  clock  of  St.  Peter's  striking  nine. 

There  were  lights  in  the  windows  of  some  of  the  dormitories 
also,  and  by  that  I  knew  that  the  younger  children,  the  chil- 
dren of  the  "infant  Jesus,  were  going  to  bed.  There  was  a  light 


MY  HONEYMOON  199 

too,  in  the  large  window  of  the  church,  and  that  told  me  that 
the  bigger  girls  were  saying  their  night  prayers. 

Creeping  close  to  the  convent  wall  I  heard  the  girls'  voices 
rising  and  falling,  and  then  through  the  closed  door  of  the 
church  came  the  muffled  sound  of  their  evening  hymn — 

"Ave  maris  steUa 
Dei  Mater  Alma " 

I  did  not  know  why  I  was  putting  myself  wilfully  to  this 
bitter  pain — the  pain  of  remembering  the  happy  years  in 
which  I  myself  was  a  girl  singing  so,  and  then  telling  myself 
that  other  girls  were  there  now  who  knew  nothing  of  me. 

I  thought  of  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  then  of  my  own 
mother,  my  saint,  my  angel,  who  had  told  me  to  think  of  her 
when  I  sang  that  hymn;  and  then  I  remembered  where  I 
was  and  what  had  happened  to  me. 

"Virgin  of  all  virgins, 
To  thy  shelter  take  me." 

I  felt  like  an  outcast.  A  stifling  sensation  came  into  my 
throat  and  I  dropped  to  my  knees  in  the  darkness.  I  thought 
I  was  broken-hearted. 

FORTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

Nor  long  after  that  we  left  Italy  on  our  return  to  England. 
"We  were  to  reach  home  by  easy  stages  so  as  to  see  some  of  the 
great  capitals  of  Europe,  but  I  had  no  interest  in  the  journey 

Our  first  stay  was  at  Monte  Carlo,  that  sweet  garden  of  the 
Mediterranean  which  God  seems  to  smile  upon  and  man  to 
curse. 

If  I  had  been  allowed  to  contemplate  the  beautiful  spectacle 
of  nature  I  think  I  could  have  been  content,  but  Alma,  with 
her  honeyed  and  insincere  words,  took  me  to  the  Casino  on 
the  usual  plea  of  keeping  her  in  countenance. 

I  hated  the  place  from  the  first,  with  its  stale  air,  its  chink 
of  louis  d'or,  its  cry  of  the  croupiers,  its  strained  faces  about 
the  tables,  and  its  general  atmosphere  of  wasted  hopes  and 
fears  and  needless  misery  and  despair. 

As  often  as  I  could  I  crept  out  to  look  at  the  flower  fetes  in 
the  streets,  or  to  climb  the  hill  of  La  Turbie  and  think  I  was 
on  my  native  rocks  with  Martin  Conrad,  or  even  to  sit  in  my 
room  and  watch  the  poor  wounded  pigeons  from  the  pigeon- 


200  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

traps  as  they  tumbled  and  ducked  into  the  sea  after  the  shots 
fired,  by  cruel  and  unsportsmanlike  sportsmen,  from  the  rifle- 
range  below. 

In  Monte  Carlo  my  husband's  vices  seemed  to  me  to  grow 
rank  and  fast.  The  gambling  fever  took  complete  possession 
of  him.  At  first  he  won  and  then  he  drank  heavily,  but 
afterwards  he  lost  and  then  his  nature  became  still  more  ugly 
and  repulsive. 

One  evening  towards  eight  o'clock,  I  was  in  my  room,  trying 
to  comfort  a  broken-winged  pigeon  which  had  come  floundering 
through  the  open  window,  when  my  husband  entered  with 
wild  eyes. 

"The  red's  coming  up  at  all  the  tables,"  he  cried  breath- 
lessly. "Give  me  some  money,  quick!" 

I  told  him  I  had  no  money  except  the  few  gold  pieces  in 
my  purse. 

"You've  a  cheque  book — give  me  a  cheque,  then." 

I  told  him  that  even  if  I  gave  him  a  cheque  he  could  not 
cash  it  that  night,  the  banks  being  closed. 

"The  jewellers  are  open  though,  and  you  have  jewels, 
haven't  you?  Stop  fooling  with  that  creature,  and  let  me 
have  some  of  them  to  pawn." 

The  situation  was  too  abject  for  discussion,  so  I  pointed  to 
the  drawer  in  which  my  jewels  were  kept,  and  he  tore  it  open, 
took  what  he  wanted  and  went  out  hurriedly  without  more 
words. 

After  that  I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  two  days,  when  with 
black  rings  about  his  eyes  he  came  in  to  say  he  must  leave 
"this  accursed  place"  immediately  or  we  should  all  be  ruined. 

Our  last  stopping-place  was  Paris,  and  in  my  ignorance  of 
the  great  French  capital  which  has  done  so  much  for  the 
world,  I  thought  it  must  be  the  sink  of  every  kind  of 
corruption. 

We  put  up  at  a  well-known  hotel  in  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and  there  (as  well  as  in  the  cafes  in  the  Bois  and  at  the  races 
at  Longchamps  on  Sundays)  we  met  the  same  people  again, 
most  of  them  English  and  Americans  on  their  way  home  after 
the  winter.  It  seemed  to  me  strange  that  there  should  be  so 
many  men  and  women  in  the  world  with  nothing  to  do,  merely 
loafing  round  it  like  tramps — the  richest  being  the  idlest, 
and  the  idlest  the  most  immoral. 

My  husband  knew  many  Frenchmen  of  the  upper  classes, 
and  I  think  he  spent  several  hours  every  day  at  their  clubs, 


MY  HONEYMOON  201 

but  (perhaps  at  Alma's  instigation)  lie  made  us  wallow 
through  the  filth  of  Paris  by  night. 

"It  will  be  lots  of  fun,"  said  Alma.  "And  then  who  is 
to  know  us  in  places  like  those?" 

I  tolerated  this  for  a  little  while,  and  then  refused  to  be 
dragged  around  any  longer  as  a  cloak  for  Alma's  pleasures. 
Telling  myself  that  if  I  continued  to  share  my  husband's 
habits  of  life,  for  any  reason  or  under  any  pretext,  I  should 
become  like  him,  and  my  soul  would  rot  inch  by  inch,  I 
resolved  to  be  clean  in  my  own  eyes  and  to  resist  the  con- 
taminations of  his  company. 

As  a  consequence,  he  became  more  and  more  reckless,  and 
Alma  made  no  efforts  to  restrain  him,  so  that  it  came  to  pass 
at  last  that  they  went  together  to  a  scandalous  entertainment 
which  was  for  a  while  the  talk  of  the  society  papers  through- 
out Europe. 

I  know  no  more  of  this  entertainment  than  I  afterwards 
learned  from  those  sources — that  it  was  given  by  a  notorious 
woman,  who  was  not  shut  out  of  society  because  she  was 
"the  good  friend"  of  a  King;  that  she  did  the  honours  with 
clever  imitative  elegance ;  that  her  salon  that  night  was  crowded 
with  such  male  guests  as  one  might  see  at  the  court  of  a 
queen — princes,  dukes,  marquises,  counts,  English  noblemen 
and  members  of  parliament,  as  well  as  some  reputable  women 
of  my  own  and  other  countries;  that  the  tables  were  laid  for 
supper  at  four  o'clock  with  every  delicacy  of  the  season  and 
wines  of  the  rarest  vintage;  that  after  supper  dancing  was 
resumed  with  increased  animation ;  and  that  the  dazzling  and 
improper  spectacle  terminated  with  a  Chatne  diabolique  at 
seven  in  the  morning,  when  the  sun  was  streaming  through  the 
windows  and  the  bells  of  the  surrounding  churches  were 
ringing  for  early  mass. 

I  had  myself  risen  early  that  morning  to  go  to  communion 
at  the  Madeleine,  and  never  shall  I  forget  the  effect  of  cleans- 
ing produced  upon  me  by  the  sacred  sacrament.  From  the 
moment  when — the  priest  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  altar — 
the  choir  sang  the  Eyrie  eleison,  down  to  the  solemn  silence  of 
the  elevation,  I  had  a  sense  of  being  washed  from  all  the  taint 
of  the  contaminating  days  since  my  marriage. 

The  music  was  Perosi's,  I  remember,  and  the  voices  in  the 
Gloria  in  excelsis,  which  I  used  to  sing  myself,  seemed  to  carry 
up  the  cry  of  my  sorrowful  heart  to  the  very  feet  of  the 
Virgin  whose  gracious  figure  hung  above  me. 


202  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Cleanse  me  and  intercede  for  me,  0  Mother  of  my  God." 

It  was  as  though  our  Blessed  Lady  did  so,  for  as  I  walked 
out  of  the  church  and  down  the  broad  steps  in  front  of  it,  I 
had  a  feeling  of  purity  and  lightness  that  I  had  never  known 
since  my  time  at  the  Sacred  Heart. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  with  all  the  freshness  and  fragrance 
of  early  morning  in  summer,  when  the  white  stone  houses  of 
Paris  seem  to  blush  in  the  sunrise;  and  as  I  walked  up  the 
Champs  Elysees  on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel.  I  met  under 
the  chestnut  trees,  which  were  then  in  bloom,  a  little  company 
of  young  girls  returning  to  school  after  their  first  communion. 

How  sweet  they  looked !  In  their  white  muslin  frocks, 
white  shoes  and  stockings  and  gloves,  white  veils  and  coronets 
of  white  flowers,  they  were  twittering  away  as  merrily  as  the 
little  birds  that  were  singing  unseen  in  the  leaves  above 
them. 

It  made  me  feel  like  a  child  myself  to  look  at  their  sweet 
faces ;  but  turning  into  the  hotel  I  felt  like  a  woman  too,  for  I 
thought  the  great  and  holy  mystery,  the  sacrament  of  union 
and  love,  had  given  me  such  strength  that  I  could  meet 
any  further  wrong  I  might  have  to  endure  in  my  walk 
through  the  world  with  charity  and  forgiveness. 

But  how  little  a  woman  knows  of  her  heart  until  it  is 
tried  in  the  fires  of  passion ! 

As  I  entered  the  salon  which  (as  usual)  divided  my  hus- 
band's bedroom  from  mine,  I  came  upon  my  maid,  Price, 
listening  intently  at  my  husband's  closed  door.  This  seemed 
to  me  so  improper  that  I  was  beginning  to  reprove  her,  when 
she  put  her  finger  to  her  lip  and  coming  over  to  me  with  her 
black  eyes  ablaze  she  said : 

"I  know  you  will  pack  me  off  for  what  I'm  going  to  say,  yet 
I  can't  help  that.  You've  stood  too  much  already,  my  lady, 
but  if  you  are  a  woman  and  have  any  pride  in  yourself  as  a 
wife,  go  and  listen  at  that  door  and  see  if  you  can  stand  any 
more." 

With  that  she  went  out  of  the  salon,  and  I  tried  to  go  to  my 
own  room,  but  I  could  not  stir.  Something  held  me  to  the  spot 
on  which  I  stood,  and  I  found  myself  listening  to  the  voices 
which  I  could  distinctly  hear  in  my  husband's  bedroom. 

There  were  two  voices,  one  a  man's,  loud  and  reckless,  the 
other  a  woman's  soft  and  cautious. 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  myself  whose  voices  they  were, 
and  neither  did  I  ask  myself  any  questions.  I  did  not  put  to 


MY  HONEYMOON  203 

my  mind  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  case  for  myself  or  the  case 
for  my  husband.  I  only  thought  and  felt  and  behaved  as 
any  other  wife  would  think  and  feel  and  behave  at  such  a 
moment.  An  ugly  and  depraved  thing,  which  my  pride  or  my 
self-respect  had  never  hitherto  permitted  me  to  believe  in, 
suddenly  leapt  into  life. 

I  was  outraged.  I  was  a  victim  of  the  treachery,  the 
duplicity,  the  disloyalty,  and  the  smothered  secrecy  of  husband 
and  friend. 

My  heart  and  soul  were  aflame  with  a  sense  of  wrong.  All 
the  sweetening  and  softening  and  purifying  effects  of  the 
sacrament  were  gone  in  an  instant,  and,  moving  stealthily 
across  the  carpet  towards  my  husband's  door,  I  swiftly  turned 
the  handle. 

The  door  was  locked. 

I  heard  a  movement  inside  the  room  and  in  a  moment  I 
hurried  from  the  salon  into  the  corridor,  intending  to  enter 
by  another  door.  As  I  was  about  to  do  so  I  heard  the  lock 
turned  back  by  a  cautious  hand  within.  Then  I  swung  the 
door  open  and  boldly  entered  the  room. 

Nobody  was  there  except  my  husband. 

But  I  was  just  in  time  to  catch  the  sound  of  rustling  skirts 
in  the  adjoining  apartment  and  to  see  a  door  closed  gently 
behind  them. 

I  looked  around.  Although  the  sun  was  shining,  the  blinds 
were  down  and  the  air  was  full  of  a  rank  odour  of  stale 
tobacco  such  as  might  have  been  brought  back  in  people's 
clothes  from  that  shameless  woman's  salon. 

My  husband,  who  had  clearly  been  drinking,  was  looking 
at  me  with  a  half-senseless  grin.  His  thin  hair  was  a  little 
disordered.  His  prominent  front  teeth  showed  hideously.  I 
saw  that  he  was  trying  to  carry  things  off  with  an  air. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure.  I  think  it  must  be  the 
first  time  .  .  .  the  very  first  time  that  .  .  ." 

I  felt  deadly  cold;  I  almost  swooned;  I  could  scarcely 
breathe,  but  I  said: 

' '  Is  that  all  you  Ve  got  to  say  to  me  ? " 

"All?  What  else,  my  dear!      I  don't  understand     .     .     ." 

"You  understand  quite  well,"  I  answered,  and  then  looking 
towards  the  door  of  the  adjoining  apartment,  I  said,  "both  of 
you  understand." 

My  husband  began  to  laugh — a  drunken,  idiotic  laugh. 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  .  .  .  perhaps  you  imagine  that  ..." 


204  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Listen,"  I  said.  "This  is  the  end  of  everything  between 
you  and  me." 

"The  end?  Why,  I  thought  that  was  long  ago.  In  fact  I 
thought  everything  ended  before  it  began." 

"I  mean  ..."  I  knew  I  was  faltering  ...  "I 
mean  that  I  can  no  longer  keep  up  the  farce  of  being  your 
wife." 

"Farce!"  Again  he  laughed.  "I  congratulate  you,  my 
dear.  Farce  is  exactly  the  word  for  it.  Our  relations  have 
been  a  farce  ever  since  the  day  we  were  married,  and  if  any- 
thing has  gone  wrong  you  have  only  yourself  to  blame  for  it. 
What 's  a  man  to  do  whose  wife  is  no  company  for  anybody  but 
the  saints  and  angels?" 

His  coarse  ridicule  cut  me  to  the  quick.  I  was  humiliated 
by  the  thought  that  after  all  in  his  own  gross  way  my  husband 
had  something  to  say  for  himself. 

Knowing  I  was  no  match  for  him  I  wanted  to  crawl  away 
without  another  word.  But  my  silence  or  the  helpless  expres- 
sion of  my  face  must  have  been  more  powerful  than  my  speech, 
for  after  a  few  seconds  in  which  he  went  on  saying  in  his 
drawling  way  that  I  had  been  no  wife  to  him,  and  if  anything 
had  happened  I  had  brought  it  on  myself,  he  stopped,  and 
neither  of  us  spoke  for  a  moment. 

Then  feeling  that  if  I  stayed  any  longer  in  that  room  1 
should  faint,  I  turned  to  go,  and  he  opened  the  door  for  me 
and  bowed  low,  perhaps  in  mockery,  as  I  passed  out. 

When  I  reached  my  own  bedroom  I  was  so  weak  that  I 
almost  dropped,  and  so  cold  that  my  maid  had  to  give  me 
brandy  and  put  hot  bottles  to  my  feet. 

And  then  the  tears  came  and  I  cried  like  a  chili 

FIFTIETH  CHAPTER 

I  WAS  far  from  well  next  morning  and  Price  wished  to  keep 
me  in  bed,  but  I  got  up  immediately  when  I  heard  that  my 
husband  was  talking  of  returning  to  London. 

Our  journey  was  quite  uneventful.  We  three  sat  together 
in  the  railway  carriage  and  in  the  private  cabin  on  the  steamer, 
with  no  other  company  than  Bimbo,  my  husband's  terrier, 
and  Prue,  Alma's  Pekingese  spaniel. 

Although  he  made  no  apology  for  his  conduct  of  the  day 
before  my  husband  was  quiet  and  conciliatory,  and  being 
sober  he  looked  almost  afraid,  as  if  telling  himself  that  he 


MY  HONEYMOON  205 

might  have  to  meet  my  father  soon — the  one  man  in  the 
world  of  whom  he  seemed  to  stand  in  fear. 

Alma  looked  equally  frightened,  but  she  carried  off  her 
nervousness  with  a  great  show  of  affection,  saying  she  was 
sorry  I  was  feeling  "badly,"  that  France  and  the  South  did 
not  agree  with  me,  and  that  I  should  be  ever  so  much  better 
when  I  was  "way  up  north." 

"We  put  up  at  a  well-known  hotel  near  Trafalgar  Square, 
the  same  that  in  our  girlhood  had  been  the  subject  of  Alma's 
dreams  of  future  bliss,  and  I  could  not  help  observing  that 
while  my  husband  was  selecting  our  rooms  she  made  a  rather 
ostentatious  point  of  asking  for  an  apartment  on  another  floor. 

It  was  late  when  we  arrived,  so  I  went  to  bed  immediately, 
being  also  anxious  to  be  alone  that  I  might  think  out  my 
course  of  action. 

I  was  then  firmly  resolved  that  one  way  or  other  my  life 
with  my  husband  should  come  to  an  end;  that  I  would  no 
longer  be  befouled  by  the  mire  he  had  been  dragging  me 
through;  that  I  should  live  a  clean  life  and  drink  a  pure 
draught,  and  oh,  how  my  very  soul  seemed  to  thirst  for  it! 

This  was  the  mood  in  which  I  went  to  sleep,  but  when  I 
awoke  in  the  morning,  almost  before  the  dawn,  the  strength 
of  my  resolution  ebbed  away.  I  listened  to  the  rumble  of 
the  rubber-bound  wheels  of  the  carriages  and  motor-cars  that 
passed  under  my  window  and,  remembering  that  I  had  not 
a  friend  in  London,  I  felt  small  and  helpless.  "What  could  I 
do  alone?  "Where  could  I  turn  for  assistance T 

Instinctively  I  knew  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  appeal  to 
my  father,  for  though  it  was  possible  that  he  might  knock 
my  husband  down,  it  was  not  conceivable  that  he  would 
encourage  me  to  separate  from  him. 

In  my  loneliness  and  helplessness  I  felt  like  a  ship-wrecked 
sailor,  who,  having  broken  away  from  the  foundering  vessel 
that  would  have  sucked  him  under,  is  yet  tossing  on  a  raft 
with  the  threatening  ocean  on  every  side,  and  looking  vainly 
for  a  sail. 

At  last  I  thought  of  ilr.  Curphy,  my  father's  advocate, 
and  decided  to  send  a  telegram  to  him  asking  for  the  name 
of  some  solicitor  in  London  to  whom  I  could  apply  for  advice. 

To  carry  out  this  intention  I  went  down  to  the  hall  about 
nine  o'clock,  when  people  were  passing  into  the  breakfast- 
room,  and  visitors  were  calling  at  the  bureau,  and  liveried 
page-boys  were  shouting  names  in  the  corridors. 


206  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

There  was  a  little  writing-room  at  one  side  of  the  hall  and  I 
sat  there  to  write  my  telegram.  It  ran — 

"Please  send  name  and  address  reliable  solicitor  London 
whom  I  can  consult  on  important  business." 

I  was  holding  the  telegraph-form  in  my  hand  and  reading 
my  message  again  and  again  to  make  sure  that  it  would  lead 
to  no  mischief,  when  I  began  to  think  of  Martin  Conrad. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  some  one  had  mentioned  his  name, 
but  I  told  myself  that  must  have  been  a  mistake, — that,  being 
so  helpless  and  so  much  in  need  of  a  friend  at  that  moment, 
my  heart  and  not  my  ears  had  heard  it. 

Nevertheless  as  I  sat  holding  my  telegraph-form  I  became 
conscious  of  somebody  who  was  moving  about  me.  It  was 
a  man,  for  I  could  smell  the  sweet  peaty  odour  of  his  Harris 
tweeds. 

At  length  with  that  thrill  which  only  the  human  voice 
can  bring  to  us  when  it  is  the  voice  of  one  from  whom  we  have 
been  long  parted,  I  heard  somebody  say,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  desk : 

"Mary,  is  it  you?" 

I  looked  up,  the  blood  rushed  to  my  face  and  a  dazzling  mist 
floated  before  my  eyes,  so  that  for  a  moment  I  could  hardly  see 
who  was  there.  But  I  knew  who  it  was — it  was  Martin  himself. 

He  came  down  on  me  like  a  breeze  from  the  mountain, 
took  me  by  both  hands,  telegram  and  all,  and  said : 

"My  goodness,  this  is  stunning!" 

I  answered,  as  well  as  I  could  for  the  confusion  that  over- 
whelmed me. 

"I'm  so  glad,  so  glad!" 

"How  well  you  are  looking!  A  little  thin,  perhaps,  but 
such  a  colour!" 

"I'm  so  glad,  so  glad!"  I  repeated,  though  I  knew  I  was 
only  blushing. 

' '  "When  did  you  arrive  ? ' ' 

I  told  him,  and  he  said: 

"We  came  into  port  only  yesterday.  And  to  think  that 
you  and  I  should  come  to  the  same  hotel  and  meet  on  the 
very  first  morning!  It's  like  a  fate,  as  our  people  in  the 
island  say.  But  it's  stunning,  perfectly  stunning!" 

A  warm  tide  of  joy  was  coursing  through  me  and  taking 
away  my  breath,  but  I  managed  to  say : 

"I've  heard  about  your  expedition.  You  had  great  hard- 
ships." 


MY  HONEYMOON  207 

"That  was  nothing!  Just  a  little  pleasure-trip  down  to 
the  eighty-sixth  latitude." 

"And  great  successes?" 

"That  was  nothing  either.  The  chief  was  jolly  good,  and 
the  boys  were  bricks." 

"I'm  so  glad,  so  glad!"  I  said  again,  for  a  kind  of  dumb 
joy  had  taken  possession  of  me,  and  I  went  on  saying  the  same 
thing  over  and  over  again,  as  people  do  when  they  are  very 
happy. 

For  two  full  minutes  I  felt  happier  than  I  had  ever  been 
in  my  life  before ;  and  then  an  icy  chill  came  over  me,  for  I 
remembered  that  I  had  been  married  since  I  saw  Martin 
Conrad  last  and  I  did  not  know  how  I  was  to  break  the  news 
to  him. 

Just  then  my  husband  and  Alma  came  down  the  lift,  and 
seeing  me  with  a  stranger,  as  they  crossed  the  hall  to  go  into 
the  breakfast-room,  they  came  up  and  spoke. 

I  had  to  introduce  them  and  it  was  hard  to  do,  for  it  was 
necessary  to  reveal  everything  in  a  word.  I  looked  at  Martin 
Conrad  when  I  presented  him  to  my  husband  and  he  did  not 
move  a  muscle.  Then  I  looked  at  my  husband  and  under  a 
very  small  bow  his  face  grew  dark. 

I  could  not  help  seeing  the  difference  between  the  two  men 
as  they  stood  together — Martin  with  his  sea-blue  eyes  and 
his  look  of  splendid  health,  and  my  husband  with  his  sallow 
cheeks  and  his  appearance  of  wasted  strength — and  somehow 
from  some  unsearchable  depths  of  my  soul  the  contrast 
humbled  me. 

When  I  introduced  Alma  she  took  Martin's  hand  and  held 
it  while  she  gazed  searchingly  into  his  eyes  from  under  her 
eyebrows,  as  she  always  did  when  she  was  being  presented 
to  a  man;  but  I  saw  that  in  this  instance  her  glance  fell 
with  no  more  effect  on  its  object  than  a  lighted  vesta  on  a 
running  stream. 

After  the  usual  banal  phrases  my  husband  inquired  if 
Martin  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  then  asked  if  he  would 
dine  with  us  some  dav. 

"Certainly!  Delighted!  With  all  the  pleasure  in  the 
world,"  said  Martin. 

"Then."  said  my  husband  with  rather  frigid  politeness, 
"you  will  see  more  of  your  friend  Mary." 

"Yes,"  said  Alma,  in  a  way  that  meant  much,  "you  will 
see  more  of  your  friend  Mary." 


208  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,  ma'am.  You  bet  I  will," 
said  Martin,  looking  straight  into  Alma's  eyes;  and  though 
she  laughed  as  she  passed  into  the  breakfast-room  with  my 
husband,  I  could  see  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  man's 
face  had  frightened  her. 

"Then  you  knew?"  I  said,  when  they  were  gone. 

"Yes;  a  friend  of  mine  who  met  you  abroad  came  down 
to  see  us  into  port  and  he  .  .  ." 

"Dr.  0 'Sullivan?" 

"That's  the  man!  Isn't  he  a  boy?  And,  my  gracious,  the 
way  he  speaks  of  you !  But  now  .  .  .  now  you  must  go  to 
breakfast  yourself,  and  I  must  be  off  about  my  business." 

"Don't  go  yet,"  I  said. 

"  I  '11  stay  all  day  if  you  want  me  to ;  but  I  promised  to  meet 
the  Lieutenant  on  the  ship  in  half  an  hour,  and  .  .  . " 

"Then  you  must  go." 

' '  Not  yet.  Sit  down  again.  Five  minutes  will  do  no  harm. 
And  by  the  way,  now  that  I  look  at  you  again,  I  'm  not  so  sure 
that  you  .  .  .  Italy,  Egypt,  there's  enough  sun  down 
there,  but  you're  pale  ...  a  little  pale,  aren't  you?" 

I  tried  to  make  light  of  my  pallor  but  Martin  looked  uneasy, 
and  after  a  moment  he  asked: 

"How  long  are  you  staying  in  London?" 

I  told  him  I  did  not  know,  whereupon  he  said : 

"Well,  I'm  to  be  here  a  month,  making  charts  and  tables 
and  reports  for  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  but  if  you 
want  me  for  anything  ...  do  you  want  me  now?" 

"No-o,  no,  not  now,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  if  you  do  want  me  for  anything — anything  at  all, 
mind,  just  pass  the  word  and  the  charts  and  the  tables  and 
the  reports  and  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  may  go  to 
the  .  .  .  Well,  somewhere." 

I  laughed  and  rose  and  told  him  he  ought  to  go,  though  at 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  was  wishing  him  to  stay,  and  think- 
ing how  little  and  lonely  I  was,  while  here  was  a  big  brave  man 
who  could  protect  me  from  every  danger. 

We  walked  together  to  the  door,  and  there  I  took  his  hand 
and  held  it,  feeling,  like  a  child,  that  if  I  let  him  go  he  might 
be  lost  in  the  human  ocean  outside  and  I  should  see  no  more  of 
him. 

At  last,  struggling  hard  with  a  lump  that  was  gathering  in 
my  throat,  I  said: 

' '  Martin,  I  have  been  so  happy  to  see  you.    I  've  never  been 


MY  HONEYMOON  209 

so  happy  to  see  anybody  in  my  life.  You  11  let  me  see  you 
again,  won't  you?" 

"Won't  I?  Bet  your  life  I  will,"  he  said,  and  then,  as 
if  seeing  that  my  lip  was  trembling  and  my  eyes  were  begin- 
ning to  fill,  he  broke  into  a  cheerful  little  burst  of  our  native 
tongue,  so  as  to  give  me  a  "heise"  as  we  say  in  Elian  and  to 
make  me  laugh  at  the  last  moment. 

"Look  here — keep  to-morrow  for  me,  will  yef  If  them 
ones"  (my  husband  and  Alma)  "is  afther  axing  ye  to  do 
anything  else  just  tell  them  there's  an  ould  shipmate  ashore, 
and  he's  wanting  ye  to  go  'asploring.'  See?  So-long!" 

It  had  been  like  a  dream,  a  beautiful  dream,  and  as  soon 
as  I  came  to  myself  in  the  hall,  with  the  visitors  calling  at 
the  bureau  and  the  page-boys  shouting  in  the  corridors,  I 
found  that  my  telegraph-form,  crumpled  and  crushed,  was 
still  in  the  palm  of  my  left  hand. 

I  tore  it  up  and  went  in  to  breakfast. 


FOURTH  PART 
I  FALL  IN  LOVE 

FIFTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

DURING  our  first  day  in  London  my  husband  had  many 
visitors,  including  Mr.  Eastcliff  and  Mr.  Vivian,  who  had 
much  to  tell  and  arrange  about. 

I  dare  say  a  great  many  events  had  happened  during  our 
six  months '  absence  from  England ;  but  the  only  thing  I  heard 
of  was  that  Mr.  Eastcliff  had  married  his  dancing-girl,  that 
she  had  retired  from  the  stage,  and  that  her  public  appearances 
were  now  confined  to  the  box-seat  of  a  four-in-hand  coach, 
which  he  drove  from  London  to  Brighton. 

This  expensive  toy  he  proposed  to  bring  round  to  the  hotel 
the  following  day,  which  chanced  to  be  Derby  Day,  when  a 
party  was  to  be  made  up  for  the  races. 

In  the  preparations  for  the  party,  Alma,  who,  as  usual, 
attracted  universal  admiration,  was  of  course  included,  but 
I  did  not  observe  that  any  provision  was  made  for  me,  though 
that  circumstance  did  not  distress  me  in  the  least,  because 
I  was  waiting  for  Martin 's  message. 

It  came  early  next  morning  in  the  person  of  Martin  himself, 
who,  running  into  our  sitting-room  like  a  breath  of  wind 
from  the  sea,  said  his  fellow  officers  were  separating  that 
day,  each  going  to  his  own  home,  and  their  commander  had 
invited  me  to  lunch  with  them  on  their  ship,  which  was  lying 
off  Tilbury. 

It  did  not  escape  me  that  my  husband  looked  relieved  at 
this  news,  and  that  Alma's  face  brightened  as  she  said  in  her 
most  succulent  tones: 

' '  I  should  go  if  I  were  you,  Mary.  The  breeze  on  the  river 
will  do  you  a  world  of  good,  dear. ' ' 

I  was  nothing  loath  to  take  them  at  their  word,  so  I  let  them 
go  off  in  their  four-in-hand  coach,  a  big  and  bustling  party, 
while  with  a  fast-beating  heart  I  made  ready  to  spend  the  day 
with  Martin,  having,  as  I  thought,  so  much  and  such  serious 
things  to  say  to  him. 

A  steam  launch  from  the  ship  was  waiting  for  us  at  the 
210 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  211 

Westminster  Pier,  and  from  the  moment  I  stepped  into  it 
I  felt  like  another  woman.  It  was  a  radiant  day  in  May, 
when  the  climate  of  our  much-maligned  London  is  the  bright- 
est and  best,  and  the  biggest  city  in  the  world  is  also  the 
most  beautiful. 

How  I  loved  it  that  day!  The  sunlight,  the  moving  river, 
the  soft  air  of  early  summer,  the  passing  panorama  of  build- 
ings, old  and  new — what  a  joy  it  was  to  me!  I  sat  on  a  side 
seat,  dipping  my  hand  over  the  gunwale  into  the  cool  water, 
while  Martin,  with  a  rush  of  racy  words,  was  pointing  out  and 
naming  everything. 

St.  Paul's  was  soon  past,  with  the  sun  glistening  off  the 
golden  cross  on  its  dome ;  then  London  Bridge ;  then  the  Tower, 
with  its  Traitors'  Gate;  then  the  new  Thames  Bridge;  and 
then  we  were  in  the  region  of  the  barges  and  wharfs  and 
warehouses,  with  their  colliers  and  coasting  traders,  and 
with  the  scum  of  coal  and  refuse  floating  on  the  surface  of 
the  stream. 

After  that  came  uglier  things  still,  which  we  did  not  mind, 
and  then  the  great  docks  with  the  hammering  of  rivets  and 
the  cranking  noise  of  the  lightermen 's  donkey  engines,  loading 
and  unloading  the  big  steamers  and  sailing  ships;  and  then 
the  broad  reaches  of  the  river  where  the  great  liners,  looking 
so  high  as  we  steamed  under  them,  lay  at  anchor  to  their 
rusty  cable-chains,  with  their  port-holes  gleaming  in  the 
sun  like  rows  of  eyes,  as  Martin  said,  in  the  bodies  of  gigantic 
fish. 

At  last  we  came  out  in  a  fresh  breadth  of  water,  with 
marshes  on  either  side  and  a  far  view  of  the  sea,  and  there, 
heaving  a  little  to  the  flowing  tide,  and  with  a  sea-gull  floating 
over  her  mizzen  mast,  lay  Martin's  ship. 

She  was  a  wooden  schooner,  once  a  Dundee  whaler  called 
the  Mary  but  now  re-christened  the  Scotia,  and  it  would  be 
silly  to  say  how  my  eyes  filled  at  sight  of  her,  just  because 
she  had  taken  Martin  down  into  the  deep  Antarctic  and 
brought  him  safely  back  again. 

"She's  a  beauty,  isn't  she?"  said  Martin. 

"Isn't  she?"  I  answered,  and  in  spite  of  all  my  troubles 
I  felt  entirely  happy. 

We  had  steamed  down  against  a  strong  tide,  so  we  were 
half  an  hour  late  for  luncheon,  and  the  officers  had  gone 
down  to  the  saloon,  but  it  was  worth  being  a  little  after  time 
to  see  the  way  they  all  leapt  up  and  received  me  like  a  queen — 


212  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

making  me  feel,  as  I  never  felt  before,  the  difference  between 
the  politeness  of  the  fashionable  idlers  and  the  manners  of 
the  men  who  do  things. 

''Holloa!"  they  cried. 

"Excuse  us,  won't  you?  We  thought  something  had  hap- 
pened and  perhaps  you  were  not  coming,"  said  the  comman- 
der, and  then  he  put  me  to  sit  between  himself  and  Martin. 

The  strange  thing  was  that  I  was  at  home  in  that  company 
in  a  moment,  and  if  anybody  imagines  that  I  must  have  been 
embarrassed  because  I  was  the  only  member  of  my  sex  among 
so  many  men  he  does  not  know  the  heart  of  a  woman. 

They  were  such  big,  bronzed  manly  fellows  with  the  note  of 
health  and  the  sense  of  space  about  them — large  space — as  if 
they  had  come  out  of  the  heroic  youth  of  the  world,  that 
they  set  my  blood  a-tingling  to  look  at  them. 

They  were  very  nice  to  me  too,  though  I  knew  that  I  only 
stood  for  the  womankind  that  each  had  got  at  home  and 
was  soon  to  go  back  to,  but  none  the  less  it  was  delightful  to 
fee]  as  if  I  were  taking  the  first  fruits  of  their  love  for  them. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  within  a  few  minutes  I,  who  had 
been  called  insipid  and  was  supposed  to  have  no  conversation, 
was  chattering  away  softly  and  happily,  making  remarks  about 
the  things  around  me  and  asking  all  sorts  of  questions. 

Of  course  I  asked  many  foolish  ones,  which  made  the  men 
laugh  very  much;  but  their  laughter  did  not  hurt  me  the 
least  bit  in  the  world,  because  everybody  laughed  on  that 
ship,  even  the  sailors  who  served  the  dishes,  and  especially 
one  grizzly  old  salt,  a  cockney  from  Wapping,  who  for  some 
unexplained  reason  was  called  Treacle. 

It  made  me  happy  to  see  how  they  all  deferred  to  Martin, 
saying:  "Isn't  that  so,  Doctor?"  or  "Don't  you  agree,  Doc- 
tor?" and  though  it  was  strange  and  new  to  hear  Martin 
(my  "Mart  of  Spitzbergen ")  called  "Doctor,"  it  was  also 
very  charming. 

After  luncheon  was  over,  and  while  coffee  was  being  served, 
the  commander  sent  Treacle  to  his  cabin  for  a  photograph 
of  all  hands  which  had  been  taken  when  they  were  at  the 
foot  ot  Mount  Erebus;  and  when  it  came  I  was  called  upon  to 
identify  one  by  one,  the  shaggy,  tousled,  unkempt,  bearded, 
middle-aged  men  in  the  picture  with  the  smart,  clean-shaven 
young  officers  who  sat  round  me  at  the  table. 

Naturally  I  made  shockingly  bad  shots,  and  the  worst  of 
them  was  when  I  associated  Treacle  with  the  commander, 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  213 

which  made  the  latter  rock  in  his  seat  and  the  former  shake 
and  shout  so  much  that  he  spilled  the  coffee. 

' '  But  what  about  the  fourth  man  in  the  front  row  from  the 
left?"  asked  the  commander. 

"Oh,  I  should  recognise  him  if  I  were  blindfolded,"  I 
answered. 

"By  what?" 

"By  his  eyes,"  I  said,  and  after  this  truly  Irish  and  fem- 
inine answer  the  men  shrieked  with  laughter. 

"She's  got  you  there,  doc,"  cried  somebody. 

' '  She  has  sure, ' '  said  Martin,  who  had  said  very  little  down 
to  that  moment,  but  was  looking  supremely  happy. 

At  length  the  time  came  for  the  men  to  go,  and  I  went  up 
on  deck  to  see  them  off  by  the  launch,  and  then  nobody  was 
left  on  the  ship  except  Martin  and  myself,  with  the  cook, 
the  cabin-boy  and  a  few  of  the  crew,  including  Treacle. 

I  knew  that  that  was  the  right  time  to  speak,  but  I  was 
too  greedy  of  every  moment  of  happiness  to  break  in  on  it  with 
the  story  of  my  troubles,  so  when  Martin  proposed  to  show 
me  over  the  ship,  away  I  went  with  him  to  look  at  the  theod- 
olites and  chronometers  and  sextants,  and  sledges  and  skis, 
and  the  aeronautic  outfit  and  the  captive  balloon,  and  the 
double-barrelled  guns,  and  the  place  where  they  kept  the  pe- 
troleum and  the  gun  cotton  for  blasting  the  ice,  and  the 
hold  forward  for  the  men's  provisions  in  hermetically-sealed 
tins,  and  the  hold  aft  for  the  dried  fish  and  biscuit  that  were 
the  food  for  the  Siberian  dogs,  and  the  empty  cage  for  the 
dogs  themselves,  which  had  just  been  sent  up  to  the  Zoo  to 
be  taken  care  of. 

Last  of  all  he  showed  me  his  own  cabin,  which  interested 
me  more  than  anything  else,  being  such  a  snug  little  place 
(though  I  thought  I  should  like  to  tidy  it  up  a  bit),  with  his 
medical  outfit,  his  books,  his  bed  like  a  shelf,  and  one  pretty 
photograph  of  his  mother's  cottage  with  the  roses  growing  over 
it,  that  I  almost  felt  as  if  I  would  not  mind  going  to  the 
Antarctic  myself  if  I  could  live  in  such  comfortable  quarters. 

Two  hours  passed  in  this  way,  though  they  had  flown 
like  five  minutes,  when  the  cabin-boy  came  to  say  that  tea 
was  served  in  the  saloon,  and  then  I  skipped  down  to  it  as 
if  the  ship  belonged  to  me.  And  no  sooner  had  I  screwed 
myself  into  the  commander's  chair,  which  was  fixed  to  the 
floor  at  the  head  of  the  narrow  table,  and  found  the  tea-tray 
almost  on  my  lap,  than  a  wave  of  memory  from  our  childhood 


214  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

came  sweeping  back  on  me,  and  I  could  not  help  giving  way 
to  the  coquetry  which  lies  hidden  in  every  girl 's  heart  so  as  to 
find  ont  how  much  Martin  had  been  thinking  of  me. 

"Ill  bet  you  anything,"  I  said,  (I  had  caught  Martin's 
style)  "you  can't  remember  where  you  and  I  first  saw  each 
other." 

He  could — it  was  in  the  little  dimity-white  room  in  his 
mother's  house  with  its  sweet-smelling  "seraas"  under  the 
sloping  thatch. 

"Well,  you  don't  remember  what  you  were  doing  when 
we  held  our  first  conversation?" 

He  did — he  was  standing  on  his  hands  with  his  feet  against 
the  wall  and  his  inverted  head  close  to  the  carpet. 

"But  you've  forgotten  what  happened  nextf  " 

He  hadn't — I  had  invited  William  Rufus  and  himself  into 
bed,  and  they  had  sat  up  on  either  side  of  me. 

Poor  William  Rufus!  I  heard  at  last  what  had  become  of 
him.  He  had  died  of  distemper  soon  after  I  was  sent  to 
school.  His  master  had  buried  him  in  the  back-garden,  and, 
thinking  I  should  be  as  sorry  as  he  was  for  the  loss  of  our 
comrade,  he  had  set  up  a  stone  with  an  inscription  in  our 
joint  names — all  of  his  own  inditing.  It  ran — he  spelled  it 
out  to  me — 

"HEBE  LICE  WILYAM  ROOFDS  WRECKTED 

BT  IZ  OLE  FREXS  MARTIN  CONRAD 

AND  MARY  O'NEILL." 

Two  big  blinding  beads  came  into  my  eyes  at  that  story, 
bat  they  were  soon  dashed  away  by  Martin  who  saw  them 
coming  and  broke  into  the  vernacular.  I  broke  into  it,  too, 
(hardly  knowing  that  the  well  of  my  native  speech  was  still 
there  until  I  began  to  tap  it),  and  we  talked  of  Tommy  the 
Mate  and  his  "starboard  eye,"  called  each  other  "bogh 
millish,"  said  things  were  "middling,"  spoke  of  the  "threes" 
(trees)  and  the  "tunder"  (thunder),  and  remembered  that 
"our  Big  Woman  was  a  wicked  devil  and  we  wouldn't  trust 
but  she'd  burn  in  helL" 

How  we  laughed!  We  laughed  at  everything;  we  laughed 
at  nothing;  we  laughed  until  we  cried;  but  I  have  often 
thought  since  that  this  was  partly  because  we  knew  in  our 
secret  hearts  that  we  were  always  hovering  on  the  edge  of 
tragic  things. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  215 

Martin  never  once  mentioned  my  husband  or  my  marriage, 
or  his  letters  to  my  father,  the  Bishop  and  Father  Dan,  which 
had  turned  out  so  terribly  true;  but  we  had  our  serious 
moments  for  all  that,  and  one  of  them  was  when  we  were 
bending  over  a  large  chart  which  he  had  spread  out  on  the 
table  to  show  me  the  course  of  the  ship  through  the  Great 
Unknown,  leaning  shoulder  to  shoulder,  so  close  that  our 
heads  almost  touched,  and  I  could  see  myself  in  his  eyes  as 
he  turned  to  speak  to  me. 

"  You  were  a  little  under  the  weather  yesterday,  shipmate — 
what  was  the  cause  of  it? "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  we  ...  we  can  talk  of  that  another  time,  can't 
we?"  I  answered,  and  then  we  both  laughed  again,  goodness 
knows  why,  unless  it  was  because  we  felt  we  were  on  the  verge 
of  unlocking  the  doors  of  each  other's  souls. 

Oh  that  joyful,  wonderful,  heart-swelling  day!  But  no 
day  ever  passed  so  quickly.  At  half -past  six  Martin  said 
we  must  be  going  back,  or  I  should  be  late  for  dinner,  and  a 
few  minutes  afterwards  we  were  in  the  launch,  which  had 
returned  to  fetch  us, 

I  had  had  such  a  happy  time  on  the  ship  that  as  we  were 
steaming  off  I  kissed  my  hand  to  her,  whereupon  Treacle, 
who  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  companion,  taking  the 
compliment  to  himself,  returned  the  salute  with  affectionate 
interest,  which  sent  Martin  and  me  into  our  last  wild  shriek 
of  laughter. 

The  return  trip  was  just  as  delightful  as  the  coming  out 
had  been,  everything  looking  different  the  other  way  round, 
for  the  sunset  was  like  a  great  celestial  fire  which  had  been 
lighted  in  the  western  sky,  and  the  big  darkening  city  seemed 
to  have  turned  its  face  to  it. 

Martin  talked  all  the  way  back  about  a  scheme  he  had  afoot 
for  going  down  to  the  region  of  the  Pole  again  in  order  to 
set  up  some  machinery  that  was  to  save  life  and  otherwise 
serve  humanity,  and  while  I  sat  close  up  to  him,  looking  into 
his  flashing  eyes — they  were  still  as  blue  as  the  bluest  sea; — 
I  said,  again  and  again:  "How  splendid!  How  glorious! 
"What  a  great,  great  thing  it  will  be  for  the  world." 

"Wont  it!"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  like  a  boy's. 

Thus  the  time  passed  without  our  being  aware  how  it  was 
going,  and  we  were  back  at  Westminster  Pier  before  I  be- 
thought me  that  of  the  sad  and  serious  subject  I  had  intended 
to  speak  about  I  had  said  nothing  at  all 


216  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

But  all  London  seemed  to  have  been  taking  holiday  that 
day,  for  as  we  drove  in  a  taxi  up  Parliament  Street  streams  of 
vehicles  full  of  happy  people  were  returning  from  the  Derby, 
including  costers'  donkey  carts  in  which  the  girls  were  carry- 
ing huge  boughs  of  May  blossom,  and  the  boys  were  wearing 
the  girls'  feathery  hats,  and  at  the  top  of  their  lusty  lungs  they 
were  waking  the  echoes  of  the  stately  avenue  with  the  ' '  Honey- 
suckle and  the  Bee." 

"Yeiv  aw  the  enny,  Oi  em  ther  bee, 
Oi'd  like  ter  sip  ther  enny  from  those  red  lips,  yew  see." 

As  we  came  near  our  hotel  we  saw  a  rather  showy  four- 
in-hand  coach,  called  the  ''Phoebus,"  drawing  up  at  the 
covered  way  in  front  of  it,  and  a  lady  on  top,  in  a  motor 
veil,  waving  her  hand  to  us. 

It  was  Alma,  with  my  husband's  and  Mr.  Eastcliff's  party 
back  from  the  races,  and  as  soon  as  we  met  on  the  pavement 
she  began  to  pay  me  high  compliments  on  my  improved 
appearance. 

"Didn't  I  say  the  river  air  would  do  you  good,  dearest?" 
she  said,  and  then  she  added  something  else,  which  would 
have  been  very  sweet  if  it  had  been  meant  sweetly,  about 
there  being  no  surer  way  to  make  a  girl  beautiful  than  to 
make  her  happy. 

There  was  some  talk  of  our  dining  together  that  night, 
but  I  excused  myself,  and  taking  leave  of  Martin,  who  gave 
my  hand  a  gentle  pressure,  I  ran  upstairs  without  waiting 
for  the  lift,  being  anxious  to  get  to  my  own  room  that  I  might 
be  alone  and  go  over  everything  in  my  mind. 

I  did  so,  ever  so  many  times,  recalling  all  that  had  been 
said  and  done  by  the  commander  and  his  comrades,  ami  even 
by  Treacle,  but  above  all  by  Martin,  and  laughing  softly  to 
myself  as  I  lived  my  day  over  again  in  a  world  of  dream. 

My  maid  came  in  once  or  twice,  with  accounts  of  the 
gorgeous  Derby  dinner  that  was  going  on  downstairs,  but  that 
did  not  matter  to  -me  in  the  least,  and  as  soon  as  I  had 
swallowed  a  little  food  I  went  to  bed  early — partly  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  Price  that  I  might  go  over  everything  again  and 
yet  again. 

I  must  have  done  so  far  into  the  night,  and  even  when  the 
wings  of  my  memory  were  weary  of  their  fluttering  and  I  was 
dropping  off  at  last,  I  thought  I  heard  Martin  calling  "ship- 
mate," and  I  said  "Yes,"  quite  loud,  as  if  he  had  been  with 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  217 

me  still  in  that  vague  and  beautiful  shadow-land  which  lies 
on  the  frontier  of  sleep. 

How  mysterious,  how  magical,  how  wonderful! 

Looking  back  I  cannot  but  think  it  strange  that  even  down 
to  that  moment  I  did  not  really  know  what  was  happening 
to  me,  being  only  conscious  of  a  great  flood  of  joy.  I  cannot 
but  think  it  strange  that,  though  Nature  had  been  whispering 
to  me  for  months,  I  did  not  know  what  it  had  been  saying. 
I  cannot  but  think  it  strange  that,  though  I  had  been  looking 
for  love  so  long  without  finding  it,  I  did  not  recognise  it 
immediately  when  it  had  come  to  me  of  itself. 

But  when  I  awoke  early  in  the  morning,  very  early,  while 
the  sunrise  was  filling  my  bedroom  with  a  rosy  flush,  and'  the 
thought  of  Martin  was  the  first  that  was  springing  from  the 
mists  of  sleep  to  my  conscious  mind,  and  I  was  asking  myself 
how  it  happened  that  I  was  feeling  so  glad,  while  I  had  so 
many  causes  for  grief,  then  suddenly — suddenly  as  the  sun 
streams  through  the  cloud-scud  over  the  sea — I  knew  that 
what  had  long  been  predestined  had  happened,  that  the 
wondrous  new  birth,  the  great  revelation,  the  joyous  mystery 
which  comes  to  every  happy  woman  in  the  world  had  come 
at  last  to  me. 

I  was  in  love. 

I  was  in  love  with  Martin  Conrad. 

FIFTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

MY  joy  was  short-lived.  No  sooner  had  I  become  aware  that 
I  loved  Martin  Conrad,  than  my  conscience  told  me  I  had  no 
right  to  do  so.  I  was  married,  and  to  love  another  than  my 
husband  was  sin. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  with  what  terror  this  thought 
possessed  me.  It  took  all  the  sunlight  out  of  my  sky,  which 
a  moment  before  had  seemed  so  bright.  It  came  on  me  like  a 
storm  of  thunder  and  lightning,  sweeping  my  happiness  into 
the  abyss. 

All  my  religion,  everything  I  had  been  taught  about  the 
sanctity  of  the  sacrament  of  marriage  seemed  to  rise  up  and 
accuse  me.  It  was  not  that  I  was  conscious  of  any  sin  against 
my  husband.  I  was  thinking  only  of  my  sin  against  God. 

The  first  effect  was  to  make  me  realise  that  it  was  no  longer 
passible  for  me  to  speak  to  Martin  about  my  husband  and 


218  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Alma.  To  do  this  now  that  I  knew  I  loved  him  would  be 
deceitful,  mean,  almost  treacherous. 

The  next  effect  was  to  make  me  see  that  all  thought  of  a 
separation  must  now  be  given  up.  How  could  I  accuse  my 
husband  when  I  was  myself  in  the  same  position?  If  he 
loved  another  woman,  I  loved  another  man. 

In  my  distress  and  fright  I  saw  only  one  means  of  escape 
either  from  the  filthy  burden  to  which  I  was  bound  or  the 
consciousness  of  a  sinful  heart,  and  that  was  to  cure  myself  of 
my  passion.  I  determined  to  do  so.  I  determined  to  fight 
against  my  love  for  Martin  Conrad,  to  conquer  it  and  to 
crush  it. 

My  first  attempt  to  do  this  was  feeble  enough.  It  was  an 
effort  to  keep  myself  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation  by  refus- 
ing to  see  Martin  alone. 

For  three  or  four  days  I  did  my  best  to  carry  out  this 
purpose,  making  one  poor  excuse  after  another,  when  (as 
happened  several  times  a  day)  he  came  down  to  see  me — that 
I  was  just  going  out  or  had  just  come  in,  or  was  tired  or 
unwell. 

It  was  tearing  my  heart  out  to  deny  myself  so,  but  I  think 
I  could  have  borne  the  pain  if  I  had  not  realised  that  I  was 
causing  pain  to  him  also. 

My  maid,  whose  head  was  always  running  on  Martin,  would 
come  back  to  my  room,  after  delivering  one  of  my  lying 
excuses,  and  say: 

"You  should  have  seen  his  face,  when  I  told  him  you  were 
ill.  It  was  just  as  if  I  'd  driven  a  knife  into  him. " 

Everybody  seemed  to  be  in  a  conspiracy  to  push  me  into 
Martin's  arms — Alma  above  all  others.  Being  a  woman  she 
read  my  secret,  and  I  could  see  from  the  first  that  she  wished 
to  justify  her  own  conduct  in  relation  to  my  husband  by 
putting  me  into  the  same  position  with  Martin. 

"Seen  Mr.  Conrad  to-day?"  she  would  ask. 

"Not  to-day,"  I  would  answer. 

"Really?  And  you  such  old  friends!  And  staying  in  the 
same  hotel,  too!" 

When  she  saw  that  I  was  struggling  hard  she  reminded 
my  husband  of  his  intention  of  asking  Martin  to  dinner,  and 
thereupon  a  night  was  fixed  and  a  party  invited. 

Martin  came,  and  I  was  only  too  happy  to  meet  him  in 
company,  though  the  pain  and  humiliation  of  the  contrast 
between  him  and  my  husband  and  his  friends,  and  the  differ- 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  219 

enee  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  he  lived  from  that  to  which 
I  thought  I  was  doomed  for  ever,  was  almost  more  than  I 
could  bear. 

I  think  they  must  have  felt  it  themselves,  for  though  their 
usual  conversation  was  of  horses  and  dogs  and  race-meetings, 
I  noticed  they  were  silent  while  Martin  in  his  rugged,  racy 
poetic  way  (for  all  explorers  are  poets)  talked  of  the  beauty 
of  the  great  Polar  night,  the  cloudless  Polar  day,  the  midnight 
calm  and  the  moonlight  on  the  glaciers,  which  was  the  love- 
liest, weirdest,  most  desolate,  yet  most  entrancing  light  the 
world  could  show. 

' '  I  wonder  you  don 't  think  of  going  back  to  the  Antarctic, 
if  it 's  so  fascinating, ' '  said  Alma. 

"I  do.  Bet  your  life  I  do, ' '  said  Martin,  and  then  he  told 
them  what  he  had  told  me  on  the  launch,  but  more  fully  and 
even  more  rapturously — the  story  of  his  great  scheme  for 
saving  life  and  otherwise  benefiting  humanity. 

For  hundreds  of  years  man,  prompted  merely  by  the  love  of 
adventure,  the  praise  of  achievement,  and  the  desire  to  know 
the  globe  he  lived  on,  had  been  shouldering  his  way  to  the 
hitherto  inviolable  regions  of  the  Poles;  but  now  the  time 
had  come  to  turn  his  knowledge  to  account. 

' '  How  ? ' '  said  my  husband. 

"By  putting  himself  into  such  a  position,"  said  Martin, 
' '  that  he  will  be  able  to  predict,  six,  eight,  ten  days  ahead,  the 
weather  of  a  vast  part  of  the  navigable  and  habitable  world — 
by  establishing  installations  of  wireless  telegraphy  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  long  ice-barrier  about  the  Pole  from  which 
ice-floes  and  icebergs  and  blizzards  come,  so  that  we  can  say 
in  ten  minutes  from  the  side  of  Mount  Erebus  to  half  the 
southern  hemisphere,  'Look  out.  It's  coming  down,'  and 
thus  save  millions  of  lives  from  shipwreck,  and  hundreds  of 
millions  of  money." 

"Splendid,  by  Jove!"  said  Mr.  Eastcliff. 

"Yes,  ripping,  by  jingo!"  said  Mr.  Vivian. 

"A  ridiculous  dream!"  muttered  my  husband,  but  not 
until  Martin  had  gone,  and  then  Alma,  seeing  that  I  was  all 
aglow,  said: 

"What  a  lovely  man !  I  wonder  you  don't  see  more  of  him, 
Mary,  my  love.  He  '11  be  going  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  soon, 
and  then  you'll  be  sorry  you  missed  the  chance." 

Her  words  hurt  me  like  the  sting  of  a  wasp,  but  I  could  not 
resist  them,  and  when  some  days  later  Martin  called  to  take 


220  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

me  to  the  Geographical  Society,  where  his  commander,  Lieu- 
tenant    was  to  give  an  account  of  their  expedition, 

I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  refuse  to  go. 

Oh,  the  difference  of  this  world  from  that  in  which  I  had 
been  living  for  the  past  six  months !  All  that  was  best  in  Eng- 
land seemed  to  be  there,  the  men  who  were  doing  the  work  of 
the  world,  and  the  women  who  were  their  wives  and  partners. 

The  theatre  was  like  the  inside  of  a  dish,  and  I  sat  by 
Martin 's  side  on  the  bottom  row  of  seats,  just  in  front  of  the 
platform  and  face  to  face  with  the  commander. 

His  lecture,  which  was  illustrated  by  many  photographic 
lantern  slides  of  the  exploring  party,  (including  the  one  that 
had  been  shown  to  me  on  the  ship)  was  very  interesting,  but 
terribly  pathetic;  and  when  he  described  the  hardships  they 
had  gone  through  in  a  prolonged  blizzard  on  a  high  plateau, 
with  food  and  fuel  running  low,  and  no  certainty  that  they 
would  ever  see  home  again,  I  found  myself  feeling  for  Martin 's 
hand  to  make  sure  that  he  was  there. 

Towards  the  end  the  commander  spoke  very  modestly  of 
himself,  saying  he  could  never  have  reached  the  87th  parallel 
if  he  had  not  had  a  crew  of  the  finest  comrades  that  ever 
sailed  on  a  ship. 

"And  though  they're  all  splendid  fellows,"  he  said, 
"there's  one  I  can  specially  mention  without  doing  any  wrong 
to  the  rest,  and  that's  the  young  doctor  of  our  expedition — 
Martin  Conrad.  Martin  has  a  scheme  of  his  own  for  going 
down  to  the  Antarctic  again  to  make  a  great  experiment  in 
the  interests  of  humanity,  and  if  and  when  he  goes  I  say, '  Good 
luck  to  him  and  God  bless  him!'  ' 

At  these  generous  words  there  was  much  applause,  during 
which  Martin  sat  blushing  like  a  big  boy  when  he  is  intro- 
duced to  the  girl  friends  of  his  sister. 

As  for  me  I  did  not  think  any  speech  could  have  been  so 
beautiful,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  have  cried  for  joy. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  hotel  I  did  cry,  but  it  was  for 
another  reason.  I  was  thinking  of  my  father  and  wondering 
why  he  did  not  wait. 

"Why,  why,  why?"  I  asked  myself. 

FIFTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

NEXT  day,  Martin  came  rushing  down  to  my  sitting-room  with 
a  sheaf  of  letters  in  his  hand,  saying: 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  221 

"That  was  jolly  good  of  the  boss,  but  look  what  he  has  let 
me  in  for?" 

They  were  requests  from  various  newspapers  for  portraits 
and  interviews,  and  particularly  from  one  great  London 
journal  for  a  special  article  to  contain  an  account  of  the 
nature  and  object  of  the  proposed  experiment. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  said.  "I'm  all  right  for  stringing 
gabble,  but  I  couldn't  write  anything  to  save  my  soul.  Now, 
you  could.  I'm  sure  you  could.  You  could  write  like 
Robinson  Crusoe.  Why  shouldn't  you  write  the  article  and 
I'll  tell  you  what  to  put  into  it?" 

There  was  no  resisting  that.  And  down  at  the  bottom  of 
my  secret  heart  I  was  glad  of  the  excuse  to  my  conscience 
that  I  could  not  any  longer  run  away  from  Martin  because 
I  was  necessary  to  help  him. 

So  we  sat  together  all  day  long,  and  though  it  was  like 
shooting  the  rapids  to  follow  Martin's  impetuous  and  imagi- 
native speech,  I  did  my  best  to  translate  his  disconnected  out- 
bursts into  more  connected  words,  and  when  the  article  was 
written  and  read  aloud  to  him  he  was  delighted. 

"Stunning!  Didn't  I  say  you  could  write  like  Robinson 
Crusoe?" 

In  due  course  it  was  published  and  made  a  deep  impression, 
for  wherever  I  went  people  were  talking  of  it,  and  though  some 
said  ' '  Fudge ! ' '  and  others,  like  my  husband,  said  ' '  Dreams ! ' ' 
the  practical  result  was  that  the  great  newspaper  started  a 
public  subscription  with  the  object  of  providing  funds  for  the 
realisation  of  Martin's  scheme. 

This  brought  him  an  immense  correspondence,  so  that  every 
morning  he  came  down  with  an  armful  of  letters  and  piteous 
appeals  to  me  to  help  him  to  reply  to  them. 

I  knew  it  would  be  dangerous  to  put  myself  in  the  way  of 
so  much  temptation,  but  the  end  of  it  was  that  day  after  day 
we  sat  together  in  my  sitting-room,  answering  the  inquiries 
of  the  sceptical,  the  congratulations  of  the  convinced,  and  the 
offers  of  assistance  that  came  from  people  who  wished  to  join 
in  the  expedition. 

What  a  joy  it  was !  It  was  like  the  dawn  of  a  new  life  to  me. 
But  the  highest  happiness  of  all  was  to  protect  Martin  against 
himself,  to  save  him  from  his  over-generous  impulses — in  a 
word,  to  mother  him. 

Many  of  the  letters  he  received  were  mere  mendicancy. 
He  was  not  rich,  yet  he  could  not  resist  a  pitiful  appeal, 


THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

especially  if  it  came  from  a  woman,  and  it  was  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  restrain  him  from  mining  himself. 

Sometimes  I  would  see  him  smuggle  a  letter  into  his  side 
pocket,  with — 

"H*m!    That  wfll  do  later." 

"What  is  it?'*  I  would  ask. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing!"  he  would  answer. 

'"Hand  it  out,  sir,"  I  would  say.  and  then  I  would  find  a 
fierce  delight  in  sending  six  freeong  words  of  refusal  to  some 
impudent  woman  who  was  trying  to  play  upon  the  tender  side 
of  my  big-hearted  hoy. 

Oh,  it  was  delightful!  My  whole  being  seemed  to  be  re- 
newed. If  only  the  dear  sweet  hours  could  go  on  and  on 
forerer! 

Sometimes  my  husband  and  Alma  would  look  in  upon  us 
at  our  work,  and  then,  while  the  colour  mounted  to  my  eyes, 
Martin  would  say : 

"I'm  fishing  with  another  man's  floats,  you  see." 

"I  see,"  my  husband  would  reply,  fixing  his  monocle  and 
showing  his  front  teeth  in  a  painful  grin. 

"Just  what  dear  Mary  lores,  though,"  Ahna  would  say. 
"I  do  believe  she  would  rather  be  sitting  in  this  sunless  room. 
writing  letters  for  Mr.  Conrad,  than  wearing  her  coronet  at  a 
King's  coronation:" 

"Just  so,  ma'am;  there  are  women  like  that,"  Martin 
would  answer,  looking  hard  at  her;  and  when  she  had  gone, 
(laughing  lightly  but  with  the  frightened  look  I  had  seen 
before)  he  would  say,  as  if  speaking  to  himself: 

"I  hate  that  woman.  She's  like  a  snake.  I  feel  as  if  I 
want  to  put  my  foot  on  it." 

At  length  the  climax  came,  One  day  Martin  rushed  down- 
stairs almost  beside  himself  in  his  boyish  joy,  to  say  that  all 
the  money  he  needed  had  been  subscribed,  and  that  in  honour 
of  the  maturing  of  the  scheme  the  proprietor  of  the  newspaper 
was  to  give  a  public  luncheon  at  one  of  the  hotels,  and  though 
no  lAmen  were  to  be  present  at  the  "feed"  a  few  ladies  were 
to  occupy  seats  in  a  gallery,  and  I  was  to  be  one  of  them. 

I  had  played  with  my  temptation  too  long  by  this  time  to 
shrink  from  the  dangerous  exaltation  which  I  knew  the  occa- 
sion would  cause,  so  when  the  day  came  I  went  to  the  hotel 
in  a  fever  of  pleasure  and  pride. 

The  luncheon  was  nearly  over,  the  speeches  were  about  to 
begin,  and  the  ladies'  gallery  was  buzzing  like  a  hive  of  bees, 


when  I  took  my  seat  in  it.  Two  bright  young  American 
women  sitting  next  to  me  were  almost  as  excited  as  myself, 
and  looking  down  at  the  men  through  a  pair  of  opera-glasses 
they  were  asking  each  other  which  was  Martin,  whereupon 
my  vanity,  not  to  speak  of  my  sense  of  possession,  was  so  lifted 
np  that  I  pointed  him  oat  to  them,  and  then  borrowed  their 
glasses  to  look  at  the  chairman. 

He  seemed  to  me  to  have  that  light  of  imagination  in  his 
eyes  which  was  always  blazing  in  Martin's,  and  when  he 
began  to  speak  I  thought  I  caught  the  note  of  the  same  wild 
passion. 

He  said  they  were  that  day  opening  a  new  chapter  in  the 
wonderful  book  of  man's  story,  and  though  the  dangers  of  the 
great  deep  might  never  be  entirely  overcome,  and  the  wind 
would  continue  to  blow  as  it  listed,  yet  the  perils  of  the  one 
and  the  movements  of  the  other  were  going  to  be  known  to, 
and  therefore  checked  by,  the  human  family. 

After  that,  and  a  beautiful  tribute  to  Martin  as  a  man,  (that 
everybody  who  had  met  him  had  come  to  love  him,  and  that 
there  must  be  something  in  the  great  solitudes  of  the  silent 
white  world  to  make  men  simple  and  strong  and  great,  as  the 
sea  made  them  staunch  and  true)  he  drank  to  the  success  of 
the  expedition,  and  called  on  Martin  to  respond  to  the  toast. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  cheering  when  Martin  rose,  but 
I  was  so  nervous  that  I  hardly  heard  it  He  was  nervous  too, 
as  I  could  plainly  see,  for  after  a  few  words  of  thunfcy,  he 
began  to  fumble  the  sheets  of  a  speech  which  he  and  I  had 
prepared  together,  trying  to  read  it,  but  losing  his  place  and 
even  dropping  his  papers. 

Beads  of  perspiration  were  starting  from  my  forehead  and 
I  knew  I  was  making  noises  in  my  throat,  when  all  at  once 
Martin  threw  his  papers  on  the  table  and  said,  in  quite  another 
voice: 

"Ship-mates,  I  mean  gentlemen,  I  never  could  write  a 
speech  in  my  life,  and  you  see  I  can't  read  one,  but  I  know 
what  I  want  to  say  and  if  you  11  take  it  as  it  comes  here  goes." 

Then  in  the  simple  style  of  a  sailor,  not  always  even  gram- 
matical yet  splendidly  clear  and  bold  and  natural,  blundering 
along  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  boy  at  school  and  could 
not  learn  his  lessons,  but  with  his  blue  eyes  ablaze,  he  told  of 
his  aims  and  his  expectations. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  end  he  said: 

"His  lordship,  the  chairman,  has  said  something  about  the 


224  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

good  effects  of  the  solitudes  of  Nature  on  a  man's  character. 
I  can  testify  to  that.  And  I  tell  you  this — whatever  you  are 
when  you're  up  here  and  have  everything  you  want,  it's 
wonderful  strange  the  way  you're  asking  the  Lord  to  stretch 
out  His  hand  and  help  you  when  you  're  down  there,  all  alone 
and  with  an  empty  hungry  stomach. 

"I  don't  know  where  you  were  last  Christmas  Day,  ship- 
mates ...  I  mean  gentlemen,  but  I  know  where  I  was.  I 
was  in  the  85th  latitude,  longitude  163,  four  miles  south  and 
thirty  west  of  Mount  Darwin.  It  was  my  own  bit  of  an 
expedition  that  my  commander  has  made  too  much  of,  and 
I  believe  in  my  heart  my  mates  had  had  enough  of  it.  Wfcen 
we  got  out  of  our  sleeping  bags  that  morning  there  was 
nothing  in  sight  but  miles  and  miles  of  rolling  waves  of  snow, 
seven  thousand  feet  up  on  a  windy  plateau,  with  glaciers  full 
of  crevasses  shutting  us  off  from  the  sea,  and  not  a  living  thing 
in  sight  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

"We  were  six  in  company  and  none  of  us  were  too  good  for 
Paradise,  and  one — he  was  an  old  Wapping  sailor,  we  called 
him  Treacle — had  the  name  of  being  a  shocking  old  rip  ashore. 
But  we  remembered  what  day  it  was,  and  we  wanted  to  feel 
that  we  weren't  cut  off  entirely  from  the  world  of  Christian 
men — our  brothers  and  sisters  who  would  be  going  to  church 
at  home.  So  I  dug  out  my  little  prayer-book  that  my  mother 
put  in  my  kit  going  away,  and  we  all  stood  round  bare-headed 
in  the  snow — a  shaggy  old  lot  I  can  tell  you,  with  chins  that 
hadn't  seen  a  razor  for  a  month — and  I  read  the  prayers  for 
the  day,  the  first  and  second  Vespers,  and  Laudate  Dominum 
and  then  the  De  Profundis. 

"I  think  we  felt  better  doing  that,  but  they  say  the  comical 
and  the  tragical  are  always  chasing  each  other,  which  can  get 
in  first,  and  it  was  so  with  us,  for  just  as  I  had  got  to  an  end 
with  the  solemn  words,  '  Out  of  the  depths  we  cry  unto  thee,  0 
Lord,  Lord  hear  our  cry, '  in  jumps  old  Treacle  in  his  thickest 
cockney,  'And  Gawd  bless  our  pore  ole  wives  and  sweethearts 
fur  a-wye.'  ' 

If  Martin  said  any  more  nobody  heard  it.  The  men  below 
were  blowing  their  noses,  and  the  women  in  the  gallery  were 
crying  openly. 

"Well,  the  man  who  can  talk  like  that  may  open  all  my 
letters  and  telegrams, ' '  said  one  of  the  young  American  women, 
who  was  wiping  her  eyes  without  shame. 

What  I  was  doing,  and  what  I  was  looking  like,  I  did  not 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  225 

know  until  the  lady,  who  had  lent  me  the  opera-glasses  leaned 

over  to  me  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  but  are  you  his  wife,  may  I  ask?" 
"Oh  no,  no,"  I  said  nervously  and  eagerly,  but  only  God 

knows  how  the  word  went  through  and  through  me. 

I  had  taken  the  wrong  course,  and  I  knew  it.     My  pride, 

my  joy,  my  happiness  were  all  accusing  me,  and  when  I  went 

to  bed  that  night  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  a  guilty  woman. 

FIFTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

I  TRIED  to  take  refuge  in  religion.  Every  day  and  all  day 
I  humbly  besought  the  pardon  of  heaven  for  the  sin  of  loving 
Martin  Conrad. 

The  little  religious  duties  which  I  had  neglected,  since  my 
marriage  (such  as  crossing  myself  at  rising  from  the  table)  I 
began  to  observe  afresh,  and  being  reminded  by  Martin's  story 
that  I  had  promised  my  mother  to  say  a  De  Profundis  for 
her  occasionally  I  now  said  one  every  day.  I  thought  these 
exercises  would  bring  me  a  certain  relief,  but  they  did  not. 

I  searched  my  Missal  for  words  that  applied  to  my  sinful 
state,  and  every  night  on  going  to  bed  I  prayed  to  God  to  take 
from  me  all  unholy  thoughts,  all  earthly  affections.  But 
what  was  the  use  of  my  prayers  when  in  the  first  dream  of 
the  first  sleep  I  was  rushing  into  Martin's  arms? 

It  was  true  that  my  love  for  Martin  was  what  the  world 
would  call  a  pure  love;  it  had  no  alloy  of  any  kind;  but  all 
the  same  I  thought  I  was  living  in  a  condition  of  adultery — 
adultery  of  the  heart. 

Early  every  morning  I  went  to  mass,  but  the  sense  I  used 
to  have  of  returning  from  the  divine  sacrifice  to  the  ordinary 
occupations  of  life  with  a  new  spirit  and  a  clean  heart  I 
could  feel  no  longer. 

I  went  oftener  to  confession  than  I  had  done  before — twice 
a  week  to  begin  with,  then  every  other  day,  then  every  day. 
But  the  old  joy,  the  sense  of  purity  and  cleansing,  did  not 
come.  I  thought  at  first  the  fault  might  be  with  my  Con- 
fessor, for  though  I  knew  I  was  in  the  presence  of  God,  the 
whispering  voice  behind  the  grating,  which  used  to  thrill 
me  with  a  feeling  of  the  supernatural,  was  that  of  a  young 
man,  and  I  asked  myself  what  a  young  priest  could  know 
by  experience  of  the  deep  temptations  of  human  love. 

This  was  at  the  new  Cathedral  at  Westminster,  so  I  changed 


226  THE  WOMAN   THOU   GAVEST   ME 

to  a  little  Catholic  church  in  a  kind  of  mews  in  Mayfair,  and 
there  my  Confessor  was  an  older  man  whose  quivering  voice 
seemed  to  search  the  very  depths  of  my  being.  He  was 
deeply  alarmed  at  my  condition  and  counselled  me  to  pray  to 
God  night  and  day  to  strengthen  me  against  temptation. 

"The  Evil  One  is  besieging  your  soul,  my  child,"  he  said. 
"Fight  with  him,  my  daughter." 

I  tried  to  follow  my  ghostly  father's  direction,  but  how 
hard  it  was  to  do  so!  Martin  had  only  to  take  my  hand 
and  look  into  my  eyes  and  all  my  good  resolutions  were  gone 
in  a  moment. 

As  a  result  of  the  fierce  struggle  between  my  heart  and 
my  soul  my  health  began  to  fail  me.  From  necessity  now, 
and  not  from  design,  I  had  to  keep  my  room,  but  even  there 
my  love  for  Martin  was  always  hanging  like  a  threatening 
sword  over  my  head. 

My  maid  Price  was  for  ever  singing  his  praises.  He  was 
so  bright,  so  cheerful,  so  strong,  so  manly;  in  fact,  he  was 
perfect,  and  any  woman  in  the  world  might  be  forgiven  if 
she  fell  in  love  with  him. 

Her  words  were  like  music  in  my  ears,  and  sometimes  I 
felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  throw  my  arms  about  her  neck  and 
kiss  her.  But  at  other  moments  I  reproved  her,  telling  her 
it  was  very  wicked  of  her  to  think  so  much  of  the  creature 
instead  of  fixing  her  mind  on  the  Creator — a  piece  of  counsel 
which  made  Price,  who  was  all  woman,  open  her  sparkling 
black  eyes  in  bewilderment. 

Nearly  every  morning  she  brought  me  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
which  Martin  had  bought  at  Covent  Garden,  all  glittering 
from  the  sunshine  and  damp  with  the  dew.  I  loved  to  have 
them  near  me,  but,  finding  they  tempted  me  to  think  more 
tenderly  of  him  who  sent  them,  I  always  contrived  by  one 
excuse  or  another  to  send  them  into  the  sitting-room  that  they 
might  be  out  of  my  sight  at  all  events. 

After  a  while  Price,  remembering  my  former  artifice,  be- 
gan to  believe  that  I  was  only  pretending  to  be  ill,  in  order 
to  draw  Martin  on,  and  then  taking  a  certain  liberty  with  me, 
as  with  a  child,  she  reproved  me. 

"If  I  were  a  lady  I  couldn't  have  the  heart,"  she  said, 
"I  really  couldn't.  It's  all  very  well  for  us  women,  but 
men  don't  understand  such  ways.  They're  only  children, 
men  are,  when  you  come  to  know  them." 

I  began  to  look  upon  poor  Price  as  a  honeyed  fiend  sent 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  227 

by  Satan  to  seduce  me,  and  to  say  the  truth,  she  sometimes 
acted  up  to  the  character.  One  day  she  said: 

"If  I  was  tied  to  a  man  I  didn't  love,  and  who  didn't  love 
me,  and  somebody  else,  worth  ten  of  him  was  ready  and 
waiting,  I  would  take  the  sweet  with  the  bitter,  I  would.  We 
women  must  follow  our  hearts,  and  why  shouldn't  wet" 

Then  I  scolded  her  dreadfully,  asking  if  she  had  forgotten 
that  she  was  speaking  to  her  mistress,  and  a  married  woman ; 
but  all  the  while  I  knew  that  it  was  myself,  not  my  maid,  I 
was  angry  with,  for  she  had  only  been  giving  voice  to  the 
thoughts  that  were  secretly  tormenting  me. 

I  had  been  in  bed  about  a  week  when  Price  came  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand  and  a  look  of  triumph  in  her  black  eyes 
and  said: 

"There,  my  lady!  What  did  I  tell  you!  You've  had 
it  all  your  own  way  and  now  you've  driven  him  off.  He  has 
left  the  hotel  and  gone  to  live  on  his  ship." 

This  frightened  me  terribly,  and  partly  for  that  reason  I 
ordered  her  out  of  the  room,  telling  her  she  must  leave  me 
altogether  if  she  ever  took  such  liberties  again.  But  I'm 
sure  she  saw  me,  as  she  was  going  through  the  door,  take  up 
Martin's  letter,  which  I  had  thrown  on  to  the  table,  and 
press  it  to  my  lips. 

The  letter  was  of  no  consequence.  It  was  merely  to  tell 
me  that  he  was  going  down  to  Tilbury  for  a  few  days,  to 
take  possession  of  his  old  ship  in  the  name  of  his  company, 
but  it  said  in  a  postscript : 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  pass  me  the  word 
and  I'll  come  up  like  quick-sticks." 

"What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  I  thought.  Every- 
thing my  heart  desired  my  soul  condemned  as  sinful,  and 
religion  had  done  nothing  to  liberate  me  from  the  pains  of 
my  guilty  passion. 

AH  this  time  my  husband  and  Alma  were  busy  with  the 
gaieties  of  the  London  season,  which  was  then  in  full  swing, 
with  the  houses  in  Mayfair  being  ablaze  every  night,  the 
blinds  up  and  the  windows  open  to  cool  the  overheated  rooms 
in  which  men  and  women  could  be  seen  dancing  in  closely- 
packed  crowds. 

One  night,  after  Alma  and  my  husband  had  gone  to  a 
reception  in  Grosvenor  Square,  I  had  a  sudden  attack  of 
heart-strain  and  had  to  be  put  to  bed,  whereupon  Price,  who 


228  THE   WOMAN   THOU   GAYEST   ME 

had  realised  that  I  was  really  ill,  told  Hobson,  my  husband's 
valet,  to  go  after  his  master  and  bring  him  back  immediately. 

"It'll  be  all  as  one,  but  I'll  go  if  you  like,"  said  Hobson. 

In  half  an  hour  he  came  back  with  my  husband's  answer, 
"Send  for  a  doctor." 

This  put  Price  into  a  fever  of  mingled  anger  and  per- 
plexity, and  not  knowing  what  else  to  do  she  telegraphed  to 
Martin  on  his  ship,  telling  him  that  I  was  ill  and  asking  what 
doctor  she  ought  to  call  in  to  see  me.  . 

Inside  an  hour  a  reply  came  not  from  Tilbury  but  from 
Portsmouth  saying : 

' '  Call  Doctor of  Brook  Street.  Am  coming  up  at  once. ' ' 

All  this  I  heard  for  the  first  time  when  Price,  with  another 
triumphant  look,  came  into  my  bedroom  flourishing  Martin's 
telegram  as  something  she  had  reason  to  be  proud  of. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  telegraphed  to  Mr. 
Conrad?"  I  said. 

"Why  not?"  said  Price.  "When  a  lady  is  ill  and  her 
husband  pays  no  attention  to  her,  and  there's  somebody  else 
not  far  off  who  would  give  his  two  eyes  to  save  her  a  pain 
in  her  little  finger,  what  is  a  woman  to  do?" 

I  told  her  what  she  was  not  to  do.  She  was  not  to  call  the 
doctor  under  any  circumstances,  and  when  Martin  came  she 
was  to  make  it  plain  to  him  that  she  had  acted  on  her  own 
responsibility. 

Towards  midnight  he  arrived,  and  Price  brought  him  into 
my  room  in  a  long  ulster  covered  with  dust.  I  blushed  and 
trembled  at  sight  of  him,  for  his  face  betrayed  the  strain 
and  anxiety  he  had  gone  through  on  my  account,  and  when 
he  smiled  at  seeing  that  I  was  not  as  ill  as  he  had  thought, 
I  was  ashamed  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

"You'll  be  sorry  you've  made  such  a  long  journey  now 
that  you  see  there's  so  little  amiss  with  me,"  I  said. 

"Sorry?"  he  said.  "By  the  holy  saints,  I  would  take  a 
longer  one  every  night  of  my  life  to  see  you  looking  so  well 
at  the  end  of  it." 

His  blue  eyes  were  shining  like  the  sun  from  behind  a 
cloud,  and  the  cruellest  looks  could  not  have  hurt  me  more. 

I  tried  to  keep  my  face  from  expressing  the  emotion  I  de- 
sired to  conceal,  and  asked  if  he  had  caught  a  train  easily 
from  Portsmouth,  seeing  he  had  arrived  so  early. 

"No.  Oh  no,  there  was  no  train  up  until  eleven  o'clock," 
he  said. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  229 

"Then  how  did  you  get  here  so  soon?"  I  asked,  and 
though  he  would  not  tell  me  at  first  I  got  it  out  of  him  at 
last — he  had  hired  a  motor-car  and  travelled  the  ninety 
miles  to  London  in  two  hours  and  a  half. 

That  crushed  me.  I  could  not  speak.  I  thought  I  should 
have  choked.  Lying  there  with  Martin  at  arm's  length  of 
me,  I  was  afraid  of  myself,  and  did  not  know  what  I  might 
do  next.  But  at  last,  with  a  great  effort  to  control  myself,  I 
took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  then  turned  my  face  to  the 
wall. 

FIFTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

THAT  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  when,  next  day 
towards  noon,  my  husband  came  with  drowsy  eyes  to  make 
a  kind  of  ungracious  apology,  saying  he  supposed  the  doctor 
had  been  sent  for,  I  said: 

"James,  I  want  you  to  take  me  home." 

"Home?     You  mean  .  .  .  Castle  Raa?" 

"Y-es." 

He  hesitated,  and  I  began  to  plead  with  him,  earnestly 
and  eagerly,  not  to  deny  me  what  I  asked. 

"Take  me  home,  I  beg,  I  pray." 

At  length,  seeming  to  think  I  must  be  homesick,  he  said : 

' '  "Well,  you  know  my  views  about  that  God-forsaken  place ; 
but  the  season's  nearly  at  an  end,  and  I  don't  mind  going 
back  on  one  condition — that  you  raise  no  objection  to  my 
inviting  a  few  friends  to  liven  it  up  a  bit?" 

"It  is  your  house,"  I  said.  "You  must  do  as  you  please 
in  it." 

"Very  good;  that's  settled,"  he  said,  getting  up  to  go. 
* '  And  I  dare  say  it  will  do  you  no  harm  to  be  out  of  the  way  of 
all  this  church-going  and  confessing  to  priests,  who  are  always 
depressing  people  even  when  they're  not  making  mischief." 

Hardly  had  my  husband  left  me  when  Alma  came  into  my 
sitting-room  in  the  most  affectionate  and  insincere  of  her 
moods. 

"My  poor,  dear  sweet  child,"  she  said.  "If  I'd  had  the 
least  idea  you  were  feeling  so  badly  I  shouldn't  have  al- 
lowed Jimmy  to  stay  another  minute  at  that  tiresome  recep- 
tion. But  how  good  it  was  of  Mr.  Conrad  to  come  all  that 
way  to  see  you!  That's  what  I  call  being  a  friend  now!" 

Then  came  the  real  object  of  her  visit — I  saw  it  coming. 

"I   hear   you're    to   have   a   house-party    at    Castle    Raa. 


230  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Jimmy's  in  his  room  writing  piles  of  invitations.  He  has 
asked  me  and  I  should  love  to  go,  but  of  course  I  cannot  do 
so  without  you  wish  it.  Do  you?" 

What  could  I  say?  What  I  did  say  I  scarcely  know.  I 
only  know  that  at  the  next  minute  Alma's  arms  were  round 
my  neck,  and  she  was  saying: 

"You  dear,  sweet,  unselfish  little  soul!  Come  let  me  kiss 
you." 

It  was  done.  I  had  committed  myself.  After  all  what 
right  had  I  to  raise  myself  on  a  moral  pinnacle  now?  And 
what  did  it  matter,  anyway?  I  was  flying  from  the  danger 
of  my  own  infidelities,  not  to  save  my  husband  from  his. 

Price  had  been  in  the  room  during  this  interview  and 
when  it  was  over  I  was  ashamed  to  look  at  her. 

' '  I  can 't  understand  you,  my  lady :  I  really  can 't, ' '  she  said. 

Next  day  I  wrote  a  little  letter  to  Martin  on  the  Scotia 
telling  him  of  our  change  of  plans,  but  forbidding  him  to 
trouble  to  come  up  to  say  good-bye,  yet  half  hoping  he  would 
disregard  my  injunction. 

He  did.  Before  I  left  my  bedroom  next  morning  I  heard 
his  voice  in  the  sitting-room  talking  to  Price,  who  with  con- 
siderable emphasis  was  giving  her  views  of  Alma. 

When  I  joined  him  I  thought  his  face  (which  had  grown 
to  be  very  powerful)  looked  hard  and  strained ;  but  his  voice 
was  as  soft  as  ever  while  he  said  I  was  doing  right  in  going 
home  and  that  my  native  air  must  be  good  for  me. 

"But  what's  this  Price  tells  me — that  Madame  is  going 
with  you?" 

I  tried  to  make  light  of  that,  but  I  broke  down  badly,  for 
his  eyes  were  on  me,  and  I  could  see  that  he  thought  I  was 
concealing  the  truth. 

For  some  minutes  he  looked  perplexed,  as  if  trying  to 
understand  how  it  came  to  pass  that  sickening;,  as  he  believed 
I  was,  at  the  sight  of  my  husband's  infidelities  I  was  yet 
carrying  the  provocative  cause  of  them  away  with  me,  and 
then  he  said  again: 

"I  hate  that  woman.  She's  like  a  snake.  I  feel  as  if  I 
want  to  put  my  foot  on  it.  I  mil,  too,  one  of  these  days — 
bet  your  life  I  will." 

It  hurt  me  to  hide  anything  from  him,  but  how  could  I 
tell  him  that  it  was  not  from  Alma  I  was  flying  but  from 
himself  ? 

When  the  day  came  for  our  departure  I  hoped  I  might  get 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  231 

away  without  seeing  Martin  again.  We  did  get  out  of  the 
hotel  and  into  the  railway  station,  yet  no  sooner  was  I  seated 
in  the  carriage  than  (in  the  cruel  war  that  was  going  on  within 
me)  I  felt  dreadfully  down  that  he  was  not  there  to  see  me  off. 

But  at  the  very  last  moment,  just  as  Alma  with  her  spaniel 
under  her  arm,  and  my  husband  with  his  terrier  on  a  strap, 
were  about  to  step  into  the  train,  up  came  Martin  like  a 
gust  of  mountain  wind. 

"Helloa!"  he  cried.  "I  shall  be  seeing  you  soon. 
Everything's  settled  about  the  expedition.  We're  to  sail 
the  first  week  in  September,  so  as  to  get  the  summer  months 
in  the  Antarctic.  But  before  that  I  must  go  over  to  the 
island  to  say  good-bye  to  the  old  folks,  and  I'll  see  you  at 
your  father's  I  suppose." 

Then  Alma  gave  my  husband  a  significant  glance  and  said : 

"But,  Mary,  my  love,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  Mr.  Conrad 
to  come  to  Castle  Raa?  You  won't  be  able  to  go  about  very 
much.  Remember  your  delicate  condition,  you  know." 

"Of  course,  why  of  course,"  said  my  husband.  "That's 
quite  true,  and  if  Mr.  Conrad  will  do  me  the  honour  to 
accept  my  hospitality  for  a  few  days  .  .  .  ' 

It  was  what  I  wanted  above  everything  on  earth,  and  yet 
I  said: 

"No,  no!  It  wouldn't  be  fair.  Martin  will  be  too  busy 
at  the  last  moment." 

But  Martin  himself  jumped  in  eagerly  with: 

"Certainly!    Delighted!     Greatest  pleasure  in  the  world." 

And  then,  while  Alma  gave  my  husband  a  look  of  arch 
triumph  to  which  he  replied  with  a  painful  smile,  Martin 
leaned  over  to  me  and  whispered: 

"Hush!  I  want  to!  I  must!"  though  what  he  meant 
by  that  I  never  knew. 

He  continued  to  look  at  me  with  a  tender  expression  until 
we  said  good-bye;  but  after  the  carriage  door  had  been 
closed  and  the  engine  had  throbbed,  and  the  guard  had 
whistled,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  his  strong  face  so  stern 
as  when  the  train  moved  from  the  platform. 

FIFTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

WE  reached  Elian  towards  the  close  of  the  following  day. 
It  was  the  height  of  the  holiday  season,  and  the  island 
seemed  to  be  ablaze  with  lights. 


232  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Two  motor-cars  were  waiting  for  us  at  the  pier,  and  in  a 
little  while  we  were  driving  out  of  Blackwater  through  con- 
gested masses  of  people  who  were  rambling  aimlessly  through 
the  principal  streets. 

Our  way  was  across  a  stone  bridge  that  crossed  the  harbour 
at  its  inner  end,  and  then  up  a  hill  that  led  to  a  headland 
overlooking  the  sea.  Within  half  an  hour  we  drew  up  at 
a  pair  of  large  gate  posts  which  were  much  decayed  and 
leaning  heavily  out  of  the  perpendicular. 

The  chauffeur  of  the  first  of  our  cars  got  down  to  open 
the  gate,  and  after  it  had  clashed  to  behind  us,  we  began  to 
ascend  a  very  steep  drive  that  was  bordered  by  tall  elm.  trees. 
It  was  now  almost  dark,  and  the  rooks,  which  had  not  yet  gone 
off  to  the  mountains,  were  making  their  evening  clamour. 

"Well,  my  dear,  you're  at  home  at  last,  and  much  good 
may  it  do  you, ' '  said  my  husband. 

I  made  no  answer  to  this  ungracious  speech,  but  Alma  was 
all  excitement. 

"So  this  is  Castle  Raa!  What  a  fascinating  old  place!" 
she  said,  and  as  we  drove  through  the  park  she  reached  out 
of  the  car  to  catch  a  first  glimpse  of  the  broad  terraces  and 
winding  ways  to  the  sea  which  had  been  reflected  in  her 
memory  since  she  was  a  child. 

I  felt  no  such  anxiety.  Never  did  a  young  bride  approach 
the  home  of  her  husband  with  less  curiosity,  but  as  our 
motor-car  toiled  up  the  drive  I  could  not  help  seeing  the 
neglected  condition  of  the  land,  with  boughs  of  trees  lying 
where  they  had  fallen  in  the  storms,  as  well  as  broken  gates 
half  off  their  hinges  and  swinging  to  the  wind. 

The  house  itself,  when  we  came  in  sight  of  it,  was  a  large 
castellated  building  with  many  lesser  turrets  and  one  lofty 
octagonal  tower,  covered  entirely  with  ivy,  which,  being 
apparently  unshorn  for  years,  hung  in  long  trailers  down  the 
walls,  and  gave  the  wrhole  pile  the  appearance  of  a  huge 
moss-covered  rock  of  the  sea  planted  on  a  promontory  of 
the  land. 

As  our  car  went  thundering  up  to  the  great  hall  door 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  servants  and  some  of  the  tenant 
farmers  (under  the  direction  of  the  tall,  sallow  man  who  had 
been  my  husband's  guardian  in  former  days,  and  was  now  his 
steward)  were  waiting  to  welcome  us,  as  well  as  Lady  Mar- 
garet Anselm,  who  was  still  reserved  and  haughty  in  her 
manner,  though  pleasant  enough  with  me. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  233 

My  husband  nodded  to  all,  shook  hands  with  some,  pre- 
sented Alma  to  his  aunt  as  "one  of  Mary's  old  school 
friends,"  (a  designation  which,  as  I  could  see,  had  gone 
ahead  of  her)  and  then  we  passed  into  the  house. 

I  found  the  inside  corresponded  with  the  outside  in  its 
appearance  of  neglect  and  decay,  the  big  square  hall  having 
rusty  and  disjointed  armour  on  its  wainscotted  walls  and 
the  mark  of  water  on  the  floor,  which  had  come  from  a  glass 
dome  over  the  well  of  the  stairs,  for  it  had  rained  while  we 
were  on  the  sea. 

The  drawing-room  had  faded  curtains  over  the  windows, 
faded  velvet  on  the  square  sofa  and  stiff  chairs,  faded  car- 
pets, faded  samplers,  and  faded  embroidery  on  faded  screens. 

The  dining-room  (the  sedate  original  of  my  father's  rather 
garish  copy)  was  a  panelled  chamber,  hung  round  with 
rubicund  portraits  of  the  male  O'Neills  from  the  early  ones 
of  the  family  who  had  been  Lords  of  Elian  down  to  the 
"bad  Lord  Raa,"  who  had  sworn  at  my  grandmother  on 
the  high  road. 

I  felt  as  if  no  woman  could  have  made  her  home  here  for 
at  least  a  hundred  years,  and  I  thought  the  general  atmos- 
phere of  the  house  was  that  of  the  days  when  spendthrift 
noblemen,  making  the  island  a  refuge  from  debt,  spent  their 
days  in  gambling  and  their  nights  in  drinking  bumpers  from 
bowls  of  whiskey  punch,  to  the  nameless  beauties  they  had 
left  "in  town." 

They  were  all  gone,  all  dead  as  the  wood  of  the  worm- 
eaten  wainscotting,  but  the  sound  of  their  noisy  merry- 
making seemed  to  cling  to  the  rafters  still,  and  as  I  went  up 
to  my  rooms  the  broad  oaken  staircase  seemed  to  be  creak- 
ing under  their  drunken  footsteps. 

My  own  apartments,  to  which  Lady  Margaret  conducted 
me,  were  on  the  southern  side  of  the  house — a  rather  stuffy 
bedroom  with  walls  covered  by  a  kind  of  pleated  chintz,  and 
a  boudoir  with  a  stone  balcony  that  had  a  flight  of  steps 
going  down  to  a  terrace  of  the  garden,  which  overlooked 
a  glen  and  had  a  far  view  of  the  sea. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  landing  outside  (which  was  not 
immediately  off  the  great  staircase  though  open  to  the  view 
of  it)  there  was  a  similar  suite  of  rooms  which  I  thought 
might  be  my  husband's,  but  I  was  told  they  were  kept  for 
a  guest. 

Being  left  alone  I  had  taken  off  my  outer  things  and  was 


234  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

standing  on  my  balcony,  listening  to  the  dull  hum  of  the 
water  in  the  glen,  the  rustle  of  the  trees  above  it,  the  surge 
of  the  sea  on  the  rocks  below,  the  creaking  of  a  rusty 
weathercock  and  the  striking  of  a  court-yard  clock,  when  I  also 
heard  the  toot  and  throb  of  another  motor-car,  and  as  soon 
as  it  came  up  I  saw  that  it  contained  Aunt  Bridget  in  the 
half-moon  bonnet  and  Betsy  Beauty,  who  was  looking  more 
than  ever  like  a  country  belle. 

When  I  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  Lady  Margaret 
was  pouring  out  tea  for  them,  and  at  sight  of  me  Aunt 
Bridget  cried; 

"Sakes  alive,  here  she  is  herself !" 

"But  how  pale  and  pinched  and  thin!"  said  Betsy  Beauty. 

"Nonsense,  girl,  that's  only  natural,"  said  my  Aunt 
Bridget,  with  something  like  a  wink;  and  then  she  went 
on  to  say  that  she  had  just  been  telling  her  ladyship  that  if 
I  felt  lonely  and  a  little  helpless  on  first  coming  home  Betsy 
would  be  pleased  to  visit  me. 

Before  I  could  reply  my  husband  came  in,  followed  shortly 
by  Alma,  who  was  presented  as  before,  as  "Mary's  old 
school-fellow ' ' ;  and  then,  while  Betsy  talked  to  Alma  and  my 
husband  to  his  kinswoman,  Aunt  Bridget,  in  an  undertone, 
addressed  herself  to  me. 

"You're  that  way,  aren't  you?  ...  No?  Goodness  me, 
girl,  your  father  will  be  disappointed!" 

Just  then  a  third  motor-car  came  throbbing  up  to  the 
house,  and  Betsy  who  was  standing  by  the  window  cried : 

"It's  Uncle  Daniel  with  Mr.  Curphy  and  Nessy. " 

"Nessy,  of  course,"  said  Aunt  Bridget  grumpily,  and 
then  she  told  me  in  a  confidential  whisper  that  she  was  a 
much-injured  woman  in  regard  to  "that  ungrateful  step- 
daughter," who  was  making  her  understand  the  words  of 
Scripture  about  the  pang  that  was  sharper  than  a  serpent's 
tooth. 

As  the  new-comers  entered  I  saw  that  Nessy  had  developed 
an  old  maid's  idea  of  smartness,  and  that  my  father's  lawyer 
was  more  than  ever  like  an  over-fatted  fish;  but  my  father 
himself  (except  that  his  hair  was  whiter)  was  the  same  man 
still,  with  the  same  heavy  step,  the  same  loud  voice  and  the 
same  tempestuous  gaiety. 

"All  here?  Good!  Glad  to  be  home,  I  guess!  Strong 
and  well  and  hearty,  I  suppose?  .  .  .  Yes,  sir,  yes!  I'm 
middling  myself,  sir.  Middling,  sir,  middling!" 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  235 

During  these  rugged  salutations  I  saw  that  Alma,  with 
the  bad  manners  of  a  certain  type  of  society  woman,  looked 
on  with  a  slightly  impertinent  air  of  amused  superiority, 
until  she  encountered  my  father's  masterful  eyes,  which 
nobody  in  the  world  could  withstand. 

After  a  moment  my  father  addressed  himself  to  me. 

"Well,  gel,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  the  shoulders,  as  he 
did  in  Rome,  "you  must  have  cut  a  dash  in  Egypt,  I  guess. 
Made  the  money  fly,  didn't  you?  No  matter!  My  gold 
was  as  good  as  anybody  else 's,  and  I  didn  't  grudge  it.  You  11 
clear  me  of  that,  anyway." 

Then  there  was  some  general  talk  about  our  travels,  about 
affairs  on  the  island  (Mr.  Curphy  saying,  with  a  laugh  and 
a  glance  in  my  direction,  that  things  were  going  so  well  with 
my  father  that  if  all  his  schemes  matured  he  would  have 
no  need  to  wait  for  a  descendant  to  become  the  "uncrowned 
King  of  Elian"),  and  finally  about  Martin  Conrad,  whose 
great  exploits  had  become  known  even  in  his  native  country. 

"Extraordinary!  Extraordinary!"  said  my  father.  "I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  him,  I  wouldn't  really.  Just  a 
neighbour  lad  without  a  penny  at  him.  And  now  the 
world's  trusting  him  with  fifty  thousand  pounds,  they're 
telling  me!" 

"Well,  many  are  called  but  few  are  chosen, "  said  Mr. 
Curphy  with  another  laugh. 

After  that,  and  some  broken  conversation,  Aunt  Bridget 
expressed  a  desire  to  see  the  house,  as  the  evening  was  clos- 
ing in  and  they  must  soon  be  going  back. 

Lady  Margaret  thereupon  took  her,  followed  by  the  rest 
of  us,  over  the  principal  rooms  of  the  Castle;  and  it  was 
interesting  to  see  the  awe  with  which  she  looked  upon  every- 
thing— her  voice  dropping  to  a  whisper  in  the  dining-room, 
I  remember,  as  if  the  scene  of  carousing  of  the  old  roysterers 
had  been  a  sort  of  sanctuary. 

My  father,  less  impressed,  saw  nothing  but  a  house  in  bad 
repair,  and  turning  to  my  husband,  who  had  been  obviously 
ill  at  ease,  he  said: 

"Go  on  like  this  much  longer,  son-in-law,  and  you'll  be 
charging  two-pence  a  head  to  look  at  your  ruins.  Guess  I 
must  send  my  architect  over  to  see  what  he  can  do  for  you. ' ' 

Then  taking  me  aside  he  made  his  loud  voice  as  low  as 
he  could  and  said: 

"What's  this  your  Aunt  Bridget  tells  me?     Nine  months 


236  THE   WOMAN  THOU   GAYEST  ME 

married  and  no  sign  yet?  Tut,  tut!  That  won't  do,  gel, 
that  won't  do." 

I  tried  to  tell  him  not  to  spend  money  on  the  Castle  if  he 
intended  to  do  so  in  expectation  of  an  heir,  but  my  heart 
was  in  my  mouth  and  what  I  really  said  I  do  not  know.  I 
only  know  that  my  father  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if 
perplexed,  and  then  burst  into  laughter. 

"I  see!  I  see!"  he  said.  "It's  a  doctor  you  want.  I 
must  send  Conrad  to  put  a  sight  on  you.  It'll  be  all  right, 
gel,  it'll  be  all  right!  Your  mother  \vas  like  that  when  you 
were  coming." 

As  we  returned  to  the  hall  Betsy  Beauty  whispered  that 
she  was  surprised  Mr.  Eastcliff  had  married,  but  she  heard 
from  Madame  that  we  were  to  have  a  house-party  soon,  and 
she  hoped  I  would  not  forget  her. 

Then  Aunt  Bridget,  who  had  been  eyeing  Alma  darkly, 
asked  me  who  and  what  she  was  and  where  she  came  from, 
whereupon  I  (trying  to  put  the  best  face  on  things)  ex- 
plained that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  New  York 
banker.  After  that  Aunt  Bridget's  countenance  cleared  per- 
ceptibly and  she  said: 

"Ah,  yes,  of  course!  I  thought  she  had  a  quality  toss 
with  her.'* 

The  two  motor-cars  had  been  drawn  up  to  the  door,  and 
the  two  parties  had  taken  their  seats  in  them  when  my 
father,  looking  about  him,  said  to  my  husband: 

"Your  garden  is  as  rough  as  a  thornbush,  son-in-law.  I 
must  send  Tommy  the  Mate  to  smarten  it  up  a  bit.  So 
long!  So  long!" 

At  the  next  moment  they  were  gone,  and  I  was  looking 
longingly  after  them.  God  knows  my  father's  house  had 
never  been  more  than  a  stepmother's  home  to  me,  but  at  that 
moment  I  yearned  to  return  to  it  and  felt  like  a  child  who 
was  being  left  behind  at  school. 

What  had  I  gained  by  running  away  from  London?  No- 
thing at  all.  Already  I  knew  I  had  brought  my  hopeless 
passion  with  me. 

And  now  I  was  alone. 

FIFTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

NEXT  day  Lady  Margaret  came  to  my  room  to  say  good-bye, 
telling  me  she  had  only  stayed  at  Castle  Raa  to  keep  house 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  237 

and  make  ready  for  me,  and  must  now  return  to  her  own 
home,  which  was  in  London. 

I  was  sorry,  for  my  heart  had  warmed  to  her,  and  when  I 
stood  at  the  door  and  saw  her  drive  off  with  my  husband  to 
catch  the  afternoon  steamer,  I  felt  I  had  lost  both  sympathy 
and  protection. 

Alma's  feelings  were  less  troubled,  and  as  we  turned  back 
into  the  house  I  could  see  that  she  was  saying  to  herself: 

"Thank  goodness,  she's  gone  away." 

A  day  or  two  later  Doctor  Conrad  came,  according  to  my 
father's  instructions,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  his  close-cropped 
iron-grey  head  coming  up  the  stairs  towards  my  room. 

Naturally  our  first  conversation  was  about  Martin,  who 
had  written  to  tell  his  parents  of  our  meeting  in  London  and 
to  announce  his  intended  visit.  It  was  all  very  exciting,  and 
now  his  mother  was  working  morning  and  night  at  the  old 
cottage,  to  prepare  for  the  arrival  of  her  son.  Such  scrubbing 
and  scouring !  Such  taking  up  of  carpets  and  laying  them  down 
again,  as  if  the  darling  old  thing  were  expecting  a  prince! 

"It  ought  to  be  Sunny  Lodge  indeed  before  she's  done 
with  it,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"I'm  sure  it  will,"  I  said.  "It  always  was,  and  it  al- 
ways will  be." 

"And  how  are  we  ourselves,"  said  the  doctor.  "A  little 
below  par,  eh?  Any  sickness?  No?  Nausea?  No?  Head- 
ache and  a  feeling  of  lassitude,  then?  No?" 

After  other  questions  and  tests,  the  old  doctor  was  looking 
puzzled,  when,  not  finding  it  in  my  heart  to  keep  him  in  the 
dark  any  longer,  I  told  him  there  was  nothing  amiss  with 
my  health,  but  I  was  unhappy  and  had  been  so  since  the 
time  of  my  marriage. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "It's  your  mind  and  not  your  body  that 
is  sick?" 

"Yes." 

"Ill  speak  to  Father  Dan,"  he  said.  "Good-bye!  God 
bless  you!" 

Less  than  half  an  hour  after  he  had  gone,  Alma  came  to 
me  in  her  softest  mode,  saying  the  doctor  had  said  I  was 
suffering  from  extreme  nervous  exhaustion  and  ought  to  be 
kept  from  worries  and  anxieties  of  every  kind. 

"So  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  while  I'm  here,  dearest, 
.  .  .  such  as  looking  after  the  house  and  the  servants  .  .  . 


:..:-?  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

No,  no,  don't  deny  me;  it  win  be  a  pleasure,  I  assure  you. 
---  So  well  say  that's  settled,  shall  we?  .  .  .  Ton  dear, 
sweet  darling  creature?" 

I  was  too  much  out  of  heart  to  care  what  happened,  but 
inside  two  days  I  realised  that  Abna  had  taken  possession 
of  tiie  boose,  and  was  ordering  and  controlling:  everything. 

Apparently  this  pleased  such  of  the  servants  as  had  any- 
thing to  gain  by  it  —  the  housekeeper  in  particular  —  for 
Abna  was  no  skinflint  and  she  was  ™*t™g  my  husband's 
money  flow  like  water,  but  it  was  less  agreeable  to  my  maid, 


_ 

"This  is  a  niee  place  to  be  sure,  where  the  mistress  takes 
no  interest  in  anything,  and  the  guest  walks  over  every- 
body. She'll  walk  over  the  mistress  herself  before  long  — 
mark  my  word  but  she  will."' 

It  would  be  about  a  week  after  our  arrival  at  Castle  Baa 
that  Price  came  to  my  room  to  say  that  a  priest  was  asking 
forme,  and  he  was  such  a  strange-looking  tiling  that  she  was 
puzzled  to  know  if  his  face  was  that  of  a  child,  a  woman  or 
a  dear  old  man. 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  Father  Dan,  so  I  went 
flying  downstairs  and  found  him  in  the  haD,  wearing  the  same 
sack  coat  (or  so  it  seeaaad)  as  when  I  was  a  child  and  made 
cupboards  of  its  vertical  pockets,  carrying  the  same  funny 
little  bag  which  he  had  taken  to  Borne  and  used  for  his  sur- 
plice at  funerals,  and  mopping  his  forehead  and  flicking  his 
boots:  with  a  red  print  handkerchief,  for  the  day  was  hot  and 
the  itMtuK  were  uusry. 

He  was  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  to  see  him,  and  when  I  asked 
if  he  would  hare  tea.  he  said  Yes,  for  he  had  walked  all  the 
way  from  the  Presbytery,  after  fasting  the  day  before;  and 
whan  I  asked  if  he  would  not  stay  overnight  he  said  Yes  to 
that,  too,  "if  it  would  not  be  troublesome  and  inconvenient" 

So  I  took  his  bag  and  gave  it  to  a  maid,  telling  her  to  take 
it  to  the  guest's  room  on  my  landing,  and  to  bring  tea  to  my 
boudoir  immediately. 

But  hardry  had  I  taken  him  upstairs  and  we  had  got 
seated  in  my  private  room,  when  the  maid  knocked  at  the 
door  to  say  that  the  housekeeper  wished  to  speak  with  me, 
and  on  going  out,  and  closing  tike  door  behind  me,  I  found 
her  on  the  1««i5"«gt  a  prim  little  flinty  person  with  quick 
ere*,  thin  lips  and  an  upward  lift  of  her  head. 


I  FALL  W  LOVE  239 

"Sony,  my  lady,  but  it  won't  be  convenient  for  his  rever- 
ence to  stay  in  the  house  to-night*"  she  said. 

"Why  so!"  I  said. 

"Because  Madame  has  ordered  all  the  looms  to  be  got 
ready  for  the  house-party*  and  this  one,"  (pointing  to  the 
guest's  room  opposite)  "is  prepared  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Eastcliff,  and  we  don't  know  how  soon  they  may  arrive." 

I  felt  myself  flashing  up  to  the  eyes  at  the  woman's  im- 
pudence, and  it  added  to  my  anger  that  Alma  herself  was 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  looking  on  and  listening. 
So  with  a  little  spurt  of  injured  pride  I  turned  severely  on 
the  one  while  really  speaking  to  the  other,  and  said: 

"Be  good  enough  to  make  this  room  ready  for  his  rever- 
ence without  one  moment's  delay,  and  please  remember  for 
the  future,  that  I  am  mistress  in  this  house,  and  your  duty 
is  to  obey  me  and  nobody  else  whatever." 

As  I  said  this  and  turned  back  to  my  boudoir,  I  saw  that 
Alma's  deep  eyes  had  a  sullen  look,  and  I  felt  that  she 
meant  to  square  accounts  with  me  some  day;  but  what  she 
did  was  done  at  once,  for  going  downstairs  (as  I  afterwards 
heard  from  Price)  she  met  my  husband  in  the  hall,  where, 
woman-like,  she  opened  her  battery  upon  him  at  his  weakest 
spot,  saying: 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  your  wife  was  priest-ridden." 

"Priest-ridden  f" 

"Precisely,"  and  then  followed  an  explanation  of  what 
had  happened,  with  astonishing  embellishments  which  made 
my  husband  pale  with  fury. 

Meantime  I  was  alone  with  Father  Dan  in  my  room,  and 
while  I  poured  out  his  tea  and  served  him  with  bread  and 
butter,  he  talked  first  about  Martin  (as  everybody  seemed  to 
do  when  speaking  to  me),  saying: 

"He  was  always  my  golden-headed  boy,  and  it's  a  mighty 
proud  man  I  am  entirely  to  hear  the  good  news  of  him." 

More  of  the  same  kind  there  was,  all  music  to  my  ears, 
and  then  Father  Ban  came  to  closer  quarters,  saying  Doctor 
Conrad  had  dropped  a  hint  that  I  was  not  very  happy. 

"Tell  your  old  priest  everything,  my  child,  and  if  there 
is  anything  he  can  do.  .  .  .  ' 

Without  waiting  for  more  words  I  sank  to  my  knees  at  his 
feet,  and  poured  out  all  my  trouWaa — telling  him  my  mar- 
riage had  been  a  failure;  that  the  sanctifying  grace  which 
he  had  foretold  as  the  result  of  the  sacrament  of  holy  wedlock 


240  THE   WOMAN   THOU  GAYEST   ME 

had  not  come  to  pass;  that  not  only  did  I  not  love  my  hus- 
band, but  my  husband  loved  another  woman,  who  was  living 
here  with  us  in  this  very  house. 

Father  Dan  was  dreadfully  distressed.  More  than  once 
while  I  was  speaking  he  crossed  himself  and  said,  "Lord  and 
His  Holy  Mother  love  us;"  and  when  I  came  to  an  end  he 
began  to  reproach  himself  for  everything,  saying  that  he 
ought  to  have  known  that  our  lad  (meaning  Martin)  did  not 
write  those  terrible  letters  without  being  certain  they  were 
true,  and  that  from  the  first  day  my  husband  came  to  our 
parish  the  sun  had  been  darkened  by  his  shadow. 

"But  take  care,"  he  said.  "I've  told  nobody  about  the 
compact  we  made  with  your  husband — nobody  but  our 
Blessed  Lady  herself — and  you  mustn't  think  of  that  as  a 
way  out  of  your  marriage.  No,  nor  of  any  other  way,  no 
matter  what,  which  the  world,  and  the  children  of  the  world, 
may  talk  about." 

"But  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it,"  I  cried. 

"Hush!  Hush!  Don't  say  that,  my  daughter.  Think 
of  it  as  one  of  the  misfortunes  of  life  which  we  all  have  to 
suffer.  How  many  poor  women  have  to  bear  the  sickness  and 
poverty,  not  to  speak  of  the  drunkenness  and  death,  of  their 
husbands!  Do  they  think  they  have  a  right  to  run  away 
from  all  that — to  break  the  sacred  vows  of  their  marriage  on 
account  of  it?  No,  my  child,  no,  and  neither  must  you. 
Some  day  it  will  all  come  right.  You'll  see  it  will.  And 
meantime  by  the  memory  of  your  mother — that  blessed  saint 
whom  the  Lord  has  made  one  of  his  own.  ..." 

"Then  what  can  I  do?" 

"Pray,  my  child,  pray  for  strength  to  bear  your  trials  and 
to  resist  all  temptation.  Say  a  rosary  for  the  Blessed  Virgin 
every  morning  before  breaking  your  fast.  I'll  say  a  rosary, 
too.  You'll  see  yet  this  is  only  God's  love  for  you,  and 
you'll  welcome  His  holy  will." 

While  my  dear  father  and  friend  was  counselling  me  so  I 
heard  my  husband  speaking  in  his  loud,  grating  tones  on 
the  landing  outside,  and  before  I  could  rise  from  my  knees  he 
had  burst  open  the  door  and  entered  the  room. 

His  face  was  deadly  white  and  he  was  like  a  man  out  of 
his  right  mind. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  me  where  I  knelt  with 
my  hands  crossed  on  my  bosom,  "when  did  I  give  you  per- 
mission to  introduce  a  priest  into  my  house?  Isn't  it 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  241 

enough  for  a  man  to  have  a  wife  who  is  a  Catholic  without 
having  the  church  and  its  ministers  shunted  into  his  home 
without  his  permission?" 

I  was  so  taken  aback  by  this  furious  assault  that  at  first  I 
could  not  speak,  but  Father  Dan  interposed  to  defend  me, 
saying  with  beautiful  patience,  that  his  visit  had  been  quite 
unexpected  on  my  part,  and  that  I  had  asked  him  to  stay 
overnight  only  because  he  was  an  old  man,  and  had  had  a 
long  walk  from  his  parish. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  your  reverence,"  said  my  husband, 
who  was  quivering  with  fury,  "but  my  wife  is  perfectly 
capable  of  answering  for  herself  without  your  assistance,  and 
as  for  your  parish  you  would  have  done  better  to  stay  there 
instead  of  coming  to  meddle  in  this  one." 

"Aren't  you  measuring  me  by  your  own  yard,  sir?"  said 
Father  Dan,  and  at  that  straight  thrust  my  husband  broke 
into  ungovernable  rage. 

"Everybody  knows  what  a  Popish  priest  is,"  he  said.  "A 
meddlesome  busybody  who  pokes  his  nose  into  other  men's 
secrets.  But  priest  or  no  priest,  I'll  have  no  man  coming  to 
my  house  to  make  mischief  between  husband  and  wife." 

"Are  you  sure,"  said  Father  Dan,  "that  some  woman  isn't 
in  your  house  already,  making  mischief  between  wife  and 
husband?" 

That  thrust  too  went  home.  My  husband  looked  at  me 
with  flashing  eyes  and  then  said: 

"As  I  thought!  You've  been  sent  for  to  help  my  wife  to 
make  a  great  to-do  of  her  imaginary  grievances.  You're  to 
stay  in  the  house  too,  and  before  long  we'll  have  you  setting 
up  as  master  here  and  giving  orders  to  my  servants !  But  not 
if  I  know  it!  ...  Your  reverence,  if  you  have  any  respect 
for  your  penitent,  you'll  please  be  good  enough  to  leave  my 
wife  to  my  protection." 

I  saw  that  Father  Dan  had  to  gulp  down  his  gathering 
anger,  but  he  only  said: 

' '  Say  no  more,  my  lord.  No  true  priest  ever  comes  between 
a  man  and  the  wife  whom  God  has  given  him.  It's  his 
business  to  unite  people,  not  to  put  them  apart.  As  for  this 
dear  child,  I  have  loved  her  since  she  was  an  infant  in  arms, 
and  never  so  much  as  at  the  present  speaking,  so  I  don't  need 
to  learn  my  duty  from  one  who  appears  to  care  no  more  for 
her  than  for  the  rind  of  a  lemon.  I'll  go,  sir,"  said  the  old 
man,  drawing  himself  up  like  a  wounded  lion,  "but  it's  not  to 

Q 


242  THE  WOMAN  THOU  G  A  VEST  ME 

your  protection  I  leave  her — it's  to  that  of  God's  blessed  and 
holy  love  and  will." 

My  husband  had  gone  before  the  last  words  were  spoken, 
but  I  think  they  must  have  followed  him  as  he  went  lunging 
down  the  stairs. 

During  this  humiliating  scene  a  hot  flush  of  shame  had  come 
to  my  cheeks  and  I  wanted  to  tell  Father  Dan  not  to  let  it 
grieve  him,  but  I  could  do  nothing  but  stoop  and  kiss  his 
hand. 

Meantime  two  or  three  of  the  servants  had  gathered  on  the 
landing  at  the  sound  of  my  husband's  voice,  and  among  them 
was  the  flinty  housekeeper  holding  the  Father's  little  bag, 
and  she  gave  it  back  to  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Then,  all  being  over,  the  woman  came  into  my  room,  with 
an  expression  of  victorious  mischief  in  her  eyes  and  said: 

"Your  ladyship  had  better  have  listened  to  them  as  knows, 
you  see." 

I  was  too  benumbed  by  that  cruel  stroke  to  reply,  but  Price 
said  enough  for  both  of  us. 

' '  If  them  as  knows, ' '  she  said,  ' '  don 't  get  out  of  this  room 
inside  two  seconds  they  '11  get  their  ugly  faces  slapped. ' ' 

I  thought  I  had  reached  the  end  of  my  power  of  endurance, 
«nd  that  night,  before  going  to  bed,  while  my  maid  was  taking 
down  my  hair,  and  I  was  thinking  of  Martin  and  asking  my- 
self if  I  should  put  up  with  my  husband's  brutalities  any 
longer,  I  heard  her  say : 

"  If  I  were  a  lady  married  to  the  wrong  man,  I  'd  have  the 
right  one  if  I  had  to  go  through  the  divorce  court  for  him." 

Now  that  was  so  exactly  the  thought  that  was  running  riot 
in  my  own  tormented  mind,  that  I  flew  at  her  like  a  wild  cat, 
asking  her  how  she  dared  to  say  anything  so  abominably 
wicked,  and  telling  her  to  take  her  notice  there  and  then. 

But  hardly  had  she  left  the  room,  when  -my  heart  was  in  my 
mouth  again,  and  I  was  trembling  with  fear  lest  she  should 
take  me  at  my  word  and  then  the  last  of  my  friends  would 
be  gone. 

FIFTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

WITHIN  the  next  few  days  the  house-party  arrived.  There 
would  be  twenty  of  them  at  least,  not  counting  valets  and 
ladies'  maids,  so  that  large  as  Castle  Raa  was  the  house  was 
full. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  243 

They  were  about  equally  divided  as  to  sex  and  belonged 
chiefly  to  my  husband's  class,  but  they  included  Mr.  Eastcliff's 
beautiful  wife,  Camilla,  and  Alma's  mother,  who,  much  to 
Alma 's  chagrin,  had  insisted  upon  being  invited. 

My  husband  required  me  to  receive  them,  and  I  did  so, 
though  I  was  only  their  nominal  hostess,  and  they  knew  it 
and  treated  me  accordingly. 

I  should  be  ashamed  to  speak  of  the  petty  slights  they  put 
upon  me,  how  they  consulted  Alma  in  my  presence  and  other- 
wise wounded  my  pride  as  a  woman  by  showing  me  thav  I 
had  lost  my  own  place  in  my  husband's  house. 

I  know  there  are  people  of  the  same  class  who  are  kind  and 
considerate,  guileless  and  pure,  the  true  nobility  of  their 
country — women  who  are  devoted  to  their  homes  and  children, 
and  men  who  spend  their  wealth  and  strength  for  the  public 
good — but  my  husband's  friends  were  not  of  that  kind. 

They  were  vain  and  proud,  selfish,  self-indulgent,  thor- 
oughly insincere,  utterly  ill-mannered,  shockingly  ill-informed, 
astonishingly  ill-educated  (capable  of  speaking  several  lan- 
guages but  incapable  of  saying  a  sensible  word  in  any  of 
them),  living  and  flourishing  in  the  world  without  religion, 
without  morality',  and  (if  it  is  not  a  cant  phrase  to  use) 
without  God. 

What  their  conduct  was  when  out  shooting,  picnicking, 
driving,  riding,  motoring,  and  yachting  (for  Mr.  Easteliff  had 
arrived  in  his  yacht,  which  was  lying  at  anchor  in  the  port 
below  the  glen),  I  do  not  know,  for  "doctor's  orders"  were 
Alma's  excuse  for  not  asking  me  to  accompany  them. 

But  at  night  they  played  bridge  (their  most  innocent  amuse- 
ment), gambled  and  drank,  banged  the  piano,  danced  "Grizzly 
Bears, ' '  sang  duets  from  the  latest  musical  comedies,  and  then 
ransacked  the  empty  houses  of  their  idle  heads  for  other 
means  of  killing  the  one  enemy  of  their  existence — Time. 

Sometimes  they  would  give  entertainments  in  honour  of 
their  clogs,  when  all  the  animals  of  all  the  guests  (there  seemed 
to  be  a  whole  kennel  of  them)  would  be  dressed  up  in  coats  of 
silk  and  satin  with  pockets  and  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
then  led  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Alma's 
wheezy  spaniel  and  my  husband's  peevish  terrier  were  sup- 
posed to  receive  them. 

Sometimes  they  would  give  "freak  dinners,"  when  the 
guests  themselves  would  be  dressed  up.  the  men  in  women's 
clothes,  the  women  in  men's,  the  male  imitating  the  piping 


244  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

treble  of  the  female  voices,  and  the  female  the  over-vowelled 
slang  of  the  male,  until,  tiring  of  this  foolishness,  they  would 
end  up  by  flinging  the  food  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  the 
usual  pellet  being  softened  bread  and  the  favourite  target  the 
noses  in  the  family  portraits,  which,  hit  and  covered  with  a 
sprawling  mess,  looked  so  ridiculous  as  to  provoke  screams  of 
laughter. 

The  talk  at  table  was  generally  of  horses  and  dogs,  but 
sometimes  it  was  of  love,  courtship  and  marriage,  including 
conjugal  fidelity,  which  was  a  favourite  subject  of  ridicule, 
with  both  the  women  and  the  men. 

Thus  my  husband  would  begin  by  saying  (he  often  said  it 
in  my  hearing)  that  once  upon  a  time  men  took  their  wives 
as  they  took  their  horses,  on  trial  for  a  year  and  a  day,  and 
"really  with  some  women  there  was  something  to  say  for  the 
old  custom." 

Then  Mr.  Vivian  would  remark  that  it  was  "a  jolly  good 
idea,  by  Jove,"  and  if  he  "ever  married,  by  the  Lord  that's 
just  what  he  would  do." 

Then  Mr.  Eastcliff  would  say  that  it  was  a  ridiculous  super- 
stition that  a  woman  should  have  her  husband  all  to  herself, 
"as  if  he  were  a  kind  of  toothbrush  which  she  could  not 
share  with  anybody  else,"  and  somebody  would  add  that  she 
might  as  reasonably  want  her  dentist  or  her  hairdresser  to  be 
kept  for  her  own  use  only. 

After  that  the  ladies,  not  to  be  left  behind,  would  join  in 
the  off-hand  rattle,  and  one  of  them  would  give  it  as  her 
opinion  that  a  wife  might  have  an  incorrigibly  unfaithful 
husband,  and  yet  be  well  off. 

"Ugh!"  said  Alma  one  night,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
"Think  of  a  poor  woman  being  tied  for  life  to  an  entirely 
faithful  husband!" 

"I  adore  the  kind  of  man  who  goes  to  the  deuce  for  a 
woman — Parnell,  and  Gambetta  and  Boulanger  and  that 
sort,"  said  a  "smart"  girl  of  three  or  four-and-twenty,  where- 
upon Camilla  Eastcliff  (she  was  a  Russian)  cried: 

"That's  vhy  the  co-respondents  in  your  divorce  courts  are 
so  sharming.  They're  like  the  villayns  in  the  plays — always 
so  dee-lightfully  vicked." 

Oh,  the  sickening  horror  of  it  all!  Whether  it  was  really 
moral  corruption  or  only  affectation  and  pose,  it  seemed 
equally  shocking,  and  though  I  bore  as  much  of  it  as  I  could 
with  a  cheerful  face,  I  escaped  as  often  as  possible  to  the 
clean  atmosphere  of  my  own  room. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  245 

But  even  there  I  was  not  always  allowed  to  be  alone,  for 
Alma's  mother  frequently  followed  me.  She  was  a  plump 
little  person  in  a  profuse  ornamentation  of  diamond  rings  and 
brooches,  with  little  or  no  education,  and  a  reputation  for 
saying  risky  things  in  blundering  French  whereof  the  prin- 
cipal humour  lay  in  the  uncertainty  as  to  whether  she  knew 
their  meaning  or  not. 

Nevertheless  she  was  the  only  good-hearted  woman  in  the 
house,  and  I  really  believe  she  thought  she  was  doing  a  kind 
act  in  keeping  me  company.  But  oh,  how  I  suffered  from  her 
long  accounts  of  her  former  "visits"  to  my  house,  whereby 
I  learned,  without  wishing  to,  what  her  origin  had  been  (the 
daughter  of  a  London  postman) ;  what  position  she  had  held 
in  Castle  Raa  in  her  winsome  and  reckless  youth  (one  that 
need  not  be  defined) ;  how  she  had  met  her  husband  in  New 
York  and  he  had  married  her  to  save  the  reputation  of  his 
child;  and  finally  how  the  American  ladies  of  society  had 
refused  to  receive  her,  and  she  had  vowed  to  be  revenged  on 
them  by  marrying  Alma  to  the  highest  title  in  Europe  that 
could  be  bought  with  money. 

"I  was  just  like  your  father,  my  dear.  I  never  did  no 
manner  of  harm  to  those  people.  They  used  to  think  I 
thought  myself  better  blood  nor  they  were,  but  I  never 
thought  no  such  thing,  I  assure  you.  Only  when  they  turned 
nasty  after  my  marriage  I  made  up  my  mind — just  as  your 
father  did — as  Alma  should  marry  a  bigger  husband  nor 
any  of  them,  even  if  he  wasn't  worth  a  dime  and  'adn't  a  'air 
on  'is  'ead." 

But  even  these  revelations  about  herself  were  less  humiliat- 
ing than  her  sympathy  with  me,  which  implied  that  I  was  not 
fitted  to  be  mistress  of  a  noble  house — how  could  it  be  ex- 
pected of  me? — whereas  Alma  was  just  as  if  she  had  been 
born  to  it,  and  therefore  it  was  lucky  for  me  that  I  had  her 
there  to  show  me  how  to  do  things. 

"Alma's  gotten  such  ton!  Such  distangy  manners!"  she 
would  say. 

The  effect  of  all  this  was  to  make  me  feel,  as  I  had  never  felt 
before,  the  intolerable  nature  of  the  yoke  I  was  living  under. 
When  I  looked  into  the  future  and  saw  nothing  before  me  but 
years  of  this  ignoble  bondage,  I  told  myself  that  nothing — no 
sacrament  or  contract,  no  law  of  church  or  state — could  make 
me  endure  it. 

From  day  to  day  my  maid  came  to  me  with  insidious  hints 
about  Alma  and  my  husband.  I  found  myself  listening  to 


246  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST   ME 

them.  I  also  found  myself  refreshing  my  memory  of  the 
hideous  scene  in  Paris,  and  wondering  why  I  had  condoned  the 
offence  by  staying  an  hour  longer  under  my  husband's  pro- 
tection. 

And  then  there  was  always  another  force  at  work  within 
me — my  own  secret  passion.  Though  sometimes  I  felt  myself 
to  be  a  wretched  sinner  and  thought  the  burden  I  had  to  bear 
was  heaven's  punishment  for  my  guilty  love,  at  other  times 
my  whole  soul  rose  in  revolt,  and  I  cried  out  not  merely  for 
separation  from  my  husband  but  for  absolute  sundering. 

Twice  during  the  painful  period  of  the  house-party  I  heard 
from  Martin.  His  first  letter  was  full  of  accounts  of  the  far- 
reaching  work  of  his  expedition — the  engaging  of  engineers, 
electricians,  geologists  and  masons,  and  the  shipping  of  great 
stores  of  wireless  apparatus — for  his  spirits  seemed  to  be  high, 
and  life  was  full  of  good  things  for  him. 

His  second  letter  told  me  that  everything  was  finished,  and 
he  was  to  visit  the  island  the  next  week,  going  first  to  "the 
old  folks"  and  coming  to  me  for  a  few  days  immediately 
before  setting  sail. 

That  brought  matters  to  a  head,  and  compelled  me  to  take 
action. 

It  may  have  been  weak  of  me,  but  not  wanting  a  repetition 
of  the  scene  with  Father  Dan,  (knowing  well  that  Martin 
would  not  bear  it  with  the  same  patience)  I  sent  the  second 
letter  to  Alma,  asking  if  the  arrangement  would  be  agree- 
able. She  returned  it  with  the  endorsement  (scribbled  in 
pencil  across  the  face),  "Certainly;  anything  to  please  you, 
dear." 

I  submitted  even  to  that.  Perhaps  I  was  a  poor-spirited 
thing,  wanting  in  proper  pride,  but  I  had  a  feeling  that  it  was 
not  worth  while  to  waste  myself  in  little  squibs  of  temper, 
because  an  eruption  was  coming  (I  wras  sure  of  that)  in  which 
Martin  would  be  concerned  on  my  side,  and  then  everybody 
and  everything  would  be  swept  out  of  the  path  of  my  life 
for  ever. 

Martin  came.  In  due  course  I  read  in  the  insular  news- 
papers of  his  arrival  on  the  island — how  the  people  had  turned 
out  in  crowds  to  cheer  him  at  the  pier,  and  how,  on  reaching 
our  own  village  the  neighbours  (I  knew  the  names  of  all  of 
them)  had  met  him  at  the  railway  station  and  taken  him  to 
his  mother's  house,  and  then  lighted  fires  on  the  mountains 
for  his  welcome  home. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  247 

It  cut  me  to  the  heart's  core  to  think  of  Martin  amid  thrill- 
ing scenes  like  those  while  I  was  here  among  degrading  scenes 
like  these.  My  love  for  Martin  was  now  like  a  wound  and  I 
resolved  that,  come  what  might,  before  he  reached  Castle 
Raa  I  should  liberate  myself  from  the  thraldom  of  my  false 
position. 

Father  Dan 's  counsels  had  faded  away  by  this  time.  Though 
I  had  prayed  for  strength  to  bear  my  burden  there  had  been 
no  result,  and  one  morning,  standing  before  the  figure  of  the 
Virgin  in  my  bedroom,  I  felt  an  impulse  to  blow  out  her  lamp 
and  never  to  light  it  again. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  I  determined  to  see  the  Bishop 
and  my  father 's  advocate,  Mr.  Curphy,  and  perhaps  my  father 
himself,  that  I  might  know  one  way  or  the  other  where  I  was, 
and  what  was  to  become  of  me.  But  how  to  do  this  I  could 
not  see,  having  a  houseful  of  people  who  were  nominally  my 
guests. 

Fortune — ill-fortune — favoured  me.  News  came  that  my 
father  had  suddenly  fallen  ill  of  some  ailment  that  puzzled  the 
doctors,  and  making  this  my  reason  and  excuse  I  spoke  to 
my  husband,  asking  if  I  might  go  home  for  two  or  three 
days. 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  meant,  "Who's 
keeping  you?" 

Then  in  my  weakness  I  spoke  to  Alma,  who  answered: 

"Certainly,  my  sweet  girl.  We  shall  miss  you  dreadfully, 
but  it's  your  duty.  And  then  you'll  see  that  dear  Mr.  .  .  . 
What  d'ye  callum?" 

Finally,  feeling  myself  a  poor,  pitiful  hypocrite,  I  apolo- 
gised for  my  going  away  to  the  guests  also,  and  they  looked 
as  if  they  might  say :  ' '  We  11  survive  it,  perhaps. ' ' 

The  night  before  my  departure  my  maid  said: 

"Perhaps  your  ladyship  has  forgotten  that  my  time's  up, 
but  I  '11  stay  until  you  return  if  you  want  me  to. ' ' 

I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  stay  with  me  altogether  and 
she  said: 

' '  Indeed  I  should,  my  lady.  Any  woman  would  like  to  stay 
with  a  good  mistress,  if  she  is  a  little  quick  sometimes.  And 
if  you  don 't  want  me  to  go  to  your  father 's  I  may  be  of  some 
use  to  you  here  before  you  come  back  again." 

I  saw  that  her  mind  was  still  running  on  divorce,  but  I  did 
not  reprove  her  now,  for  mine  was  turning  in  the  same 
direction. 


248  THE   WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Next  morning  most  of  the  guests  came  to  the  hall  door  to 
see  me  off,  and  they  gave  me  a  shower  of  indulgent  smiles  as 
the  motor-car  moved  away. 

FIFTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

BEFORE  going  to  my  father's  house  I  went  to  the  Bishop's. 
Bishop's  Court  is  at  the  other  side  of  the  island,  and  it  was 
noon  before  I  drove  under  its  tall  elm  trees,  in  which  a  vast 
concourse  of  crows  seemed  to  be  holding  a  sort  of  general 
congress. 

The  Bishop  was  then  at  his  luncheon,  and  after  luncheon 
(so  his  liveried  servant  told  me)  he  usually  took  a  siesta.  I 
have  always  thought  it  was  unfortunate  for  my  interview 
that  it  came  between  his  food  and  his  sleep. 

The  little  reception-room  into  which  I  was  shown  was 
luxuriously,  not  to  say  gorgeously,  appointed,  with  easy  chairs 
and  sofas,  a  large  portrait  of  the  Pope,  signed  by  the  Holy 
Father  himself,  and  a  number  of  pictures  of  great  people  of 
all  kinds — dukes,  marquises,  lords,  counts — as  well  as  photo- 
graphs of  fashionable  ladies  in  low  dress  inscribed  in  several 
languages  to  "My  dear  Father  in  God  the  Lord  Bishop  of 
Elian." 

The  Bishop  came  to  me  after  a  few  minutes,  smiling  and 
apparently  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Except  that  he  wore 
a  biretta  he  was  dressed — as  in  Rome — in  his  long  black 
soutane  with  its  innumerable  buttons,  his  silver-buckled  shoes, 
his  heavy  gold  chain  and  jewelled  cross. 

He  welcomed  me  in  his  smooth  and  suave  manner,  asking 
if  he  could  offer  me  a  little  refreshment;  but,  too  full  of  my 
mission  to  think  of  eating  and  drinking,  I  plunged  imme- 
diately into  the  object  of  my  visit. 

"Monsignor,"  I  said,  "I  am  in  great  trouble.  It  is  about 
my  marriage." 

The  smile  was  smitten  away  from  the  Bishop 's  face  by  this 
announcement. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.    "Nothing  serious,  I  trust?" 

I  told  him  it  was  very  serious,  and  straightway  I  began 
on  the  spiritual  part  of  my  grievance — that  my  husband  did 
not  love  me,  that  he  loved  another  woman,  that  the  sacred 
sacrament  of  my  marriage.  .  .  . 

"Wait,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  rose  to  close  the  window, 
for  the  clamour  of  the  crows  was  deafening — a  trial  must  have 
been  going  on  in  the  trees.  Returning  to  his  seat  he  said: 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  249 

"Dear  lady,  you  must  understand  that  there  is  one  offence, 
and  only  one.  which  in  all  Christian  countries  and  civilised 
communities  is  considered  sufficient  to  constitute  a  real  and 
tangible  grievance.  Have  you  any  evidence  of  that?" 

I  knew  what  he  meant  and  I  felt  myself  colouring  to  the 
roots  of  my  hair.  But  gulping  down  my  shame  I  recounted 
the  story  of  the  scene  in  Paris  and  gave  a  report  of  my  maid 's 
charges  and  surmises. 

"Humph!"  said  the  Bishop,  and  I  saw  in  a  moment  that 
he  was  going  to  belittle  my  proofs. 

"Little  or  no  evidence  of  your  own,  apparently.  Chiefly 
that  of  your  maid.  And  ladies'  maids  are  notorious  mischief- 
makers." 

"But  it's  true,"  I  said.  "My  husband  will  not  deny  it. 
He  cannot." 

"So  far  as  I  am  able  to  observe  what  passes  in  the  world," 
said  the  Bishop,  "men  in  such  circumstances  always  can  and 
do  deny  it. ' ' 

I  felt  my  hands  growing  moist  under  my  gloves.  I  thought 
the  Bishop  was  trying  to  be  blind  to  what  he  did  not  wish 
to  see. 

"But  I'm  right,  I'm  sure  I'm  right,"  I  said. 

"Well,  assuming  you  are  right,  what  is  it,  dear  lady,  that 
you  wish  me  to  do  ? " 

For  some  minutes  I  felt  like  a  fool,  but  I  stammered  out  at 
length  that  I  had  come  for  his  direction  and  to  learn  what 
relief  the  Church  could  give  me. 

"H'm!"  said  the  Bishop,  and  then  crossing  one  leg  over 
the  other,  and  fumbling  the  silver  buckle  of  his  shoe,  he  said : 

"The  Church,  dear  lady,  does  indeed  provide  alleviation  in 
cases  of  dire  necessity.  It  provides  the  relief  of  separation — 
always  deploring  the  necessity  and  hoping  for  ultimate  re- 
conciliation. But  to  sanction  the  separation  of  a  wife  from 
her  husband  because — pardon  me,  I  do  not  say  this  is  your 
case — she  finds  that  he  does  not  please  her,  or  because — 
again  I  do  not  say  this  is  your  case — she  fancies  that  some- 
body else  pleases  her  better.  ..." 

"Monsignor,"  I  said,  feeling  hot  and  dizzy,  "we  need  not 
discuss  separation.  I  am  thinking  of  something  much  more 
serious. ' ' 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  the  Bishop's  face. 
He  looked  aghast. 

"My  good  lady,  surely  you  are  not  thinking  of  divorce?" 


250  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  think  my  head  must  have  dropped  as  in  silent  assent, 
for  in  a  peremptory  and  condemnatory  manner  the  Bishop 
took  me  to  task,  asking  if  I  did  not  know  that  the  Catholic 
Church  did  not  recognise  divorce  under  any  circumstances, 
and  if  I  had  forgotten  what  the  Holy  Father  himself  (point- 
ing up  to  the  portrait)  had  said  to  me — that  when  I  entered 
into  the  solemn  contract  of  holy  matrimony  I  was  to  do  so  in 
the  full  consciousness  that  it  could  not  be  broken  but  by  death. 

"The  love  in  which  husband  and  wife  contract  to  hold  each 
other  in  holy  wedlock  is  typified  by  the  love  of  Christ  for  His 
Church,  and  as  the  one  can  never  be  broken,  neither  can  the 
other." 

"But  my  husband  does  not  love  me,"  I  said.  "Neither 
do  I  love  him,  and  therefore  the  contract  between  us  is  broken 
already." 

The  Bishop  was  very  severe  with  me  for  this,  telling  me 
that  as  a  good  child  of  the  Church,  I  must  never,  never  say 
that  again,  for  though  marriage  was  a  contract  it  differed 
from  all  other  contracts  whatsoever. 

"When  you  married  your  husband,  dear  lady,  you  were 
bound  to  him  not  by  your  own  act  alone,  but  by  a  mysterious 
power  from  which  neither  of  you  can  ever  free  yourself.  The 
power  that  united  you  was  God,  and  whom  God  has  joined 
together  no  man  may  put  asunder. ' ' 

I  felt  my  head  drooping.  The  Bishop  was  saying  what  I 
had  always  been  taught,  though  in  the  torment  of  my  trouble 
and  the  fierce  fire  of  my  temptation  I  had  forgotten  it. 

"The  civil  law  might  divorce  you,"  continued  the  Bishop. 
"I  don't  know — I  can  say  nothing  about  that.  But  it  would 
have  no  right  to  do  so  because  the  law  can  have  no  right  to 
undo  what  God  Himself  has  done." 

Oh,  it  was  cruel!  I  felt  as  if  the  future  of  my  life  were 
darkening  before  me — as  if  the  iron  bars  of  a  prison  were 
closing  upon  me,  and  fetters  were  being  fixed  on  every  limb. 

"But  even  if  the  civil  law  could  and  would  divorce  you," 
said  the  Bishop,  "think  of  the  injury  you  would  be  inflicting 
on  the  Church.  Yours  was  what  is  called  a  mixed  marriage, 
and  the  Church  does  not  favour  such  marriages,  but  it  con- 
sented in  this  case,  and  why?  Because  it  hoped  to  bring 
back  an  erring  family  in  a  second  generation  to  the  fold  of 
the  faith.  Yet  what  would  you  be  doing?  Without  waiting 
for  a  second  generation  you  would  be  defeating  its  purpose." 

A  cold  chill  seemed  to  creep  to  my  heart  at  those  words. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  251 

Was  it  the  lost  opportunity  the  Bishop  was  thinking  of,  in- 
stead of  the  suffering  woman  with  her  bruised  and  bleeding 
soul? 

I  rose  to  go.  The  Bishop  rose  with  me,  and  began  to 
counsel  forgiveness. 

"Even  if  you  have  suffered  injury,  dear  lady,"  he  said — 
"I  don't  say  you  haven't — isn't  it  possible  to  forgive?  Re- 
member, forgiveness  is  a  divine  virtue,  enjoined  on  us  all, 
and  especially  on  a  woman  towards  the  man  she  has  married. 
Only  think!  How  many  women  have  to  practise  it — every 
day,  all  the  world  over!" 

"Ah,  well!"  I  said,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

The  Bishop  walked  with  me,  urging  me,  as  a  good  daughter 
of  the  Church,  to  live  at  peace  with  my  husband,  whatever  his 
faults,  and  when  my  children  came  (as  please  God  they  would) 
to  "instil  into  them  the  true  faith  with  all  a  mother's  art,  a 
mother's  tenderness,"  so  that  the  object  of  my  marriage  might 
be  fulfilled,  and  a  good  Catholic  become  the  heir  to  Castle  Raa. 

"So  the  Church  can  do  nothing  for  me?"  I  said. 

"Nothing  but  pray,  dear  lady,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"When  I  left  him  my  heart  was  in  fierce  rebellion ;  and,  since 
the  Church  could  do  nothing,  I  determined  to  see  if  the  law 
could  do  anything,  so  I  ordered  my  chauffeur  to  drive  to  the 
house  of  my  father's  advocate  at  Holmtown. 

The  trial  in  the  trees  was  over  by  this  time,  and  a  dead  crow 
tumbled  from  one  of  the  tall  elms  as  we  passed  out  of  the 
grounds. 

Holmtown  is  a  little  city  on  the  face  of  our  bleak  west 
coast,  dominated  by  a  broad  stretch  of  sea,  and  having  the 
sound  of  the  waves  always  rumbling  over  it.  Mr.  Curphy's 
house  faced  the  shore  and  his  office  was  an  upper  room  plainly 
furnished  with  a  writing  desk,  a  deal  table,  laden  with  law 
books  and  foolscap  papers,  a  stiff  arm-chair,  covered  with 
American  leather,  three  or  four  coloured  engravings  of  judges 
in  red  and  ermine,  a  photograph  of  the  lawyer  himself  in  wig 
and  gown,  an  illuminated  certificate  of  his  membership  of  a 
legal  society,  and  a  number  of  lacquered  tin  boxes,  each  in- 
scribed with  the  name  of  a  client — the  largest  box  bearing  the 
name  of  "Daniel  O'XeilL" 

My  father's  advocate  received  me  with  his  usual  bland 
smile,  gave  me  his  clammy  fat  hand,  put  me  to  sit  in  the  arm- 
chair, hoped  my  unexpected  visit  did  not  presage  worse  news 
from  the  Big  House,  and  finally  asked  me  what  he  could  do. 

I  told  my  story  over  again,  omitting  my  sentimental  griev- 


252  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

ances  and  coming  quickly,  and  with  less  delicacy,  to  the 
grosser  facts  of  my  husband 's  infidelity. 

The  lawyer  listened  with  his  head  aside,  his  eyes  looking  out 
on  the  sea  and  his  white  fingers  combing  his  long  brown 
beard,  and  before  I  had  finished  I  could  see  that  he  too,  like 
the  Bishop,  had  determined  to  see  nothing. 

"You  may  be  right,"  he  began.  .  .  . 

"I  am  right!"  I  answered. 

"But  even  if  you  are,  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  that  adultery 
is  not  enough  of  itself  as  a  ground  for  divorce." 

"Not  enough?" 

"If  you  were  a  man  it  would  be,  but  being  a  woman  you 
must  establish  cruelty  as  well." 

"Cruelty?    Isn't  it  all  cruelty?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  human  sense,  yes;  in  the  legal  sense,  no,"  answered 
the  lawyer. 

And  then  he  proceeded  to  explain  to  me  that  in  this  country, 
unlike  some  others,  before  a  woman  could  obtain  a  divorce 
from  her  husband  she  had  to  prove  that  he  had  not  only  been 
unfaithful  to  her,  but  that  he  had  used  violence  to  her,  struck 
her  in  the  face  perhaps,  threatened  her  or  endangered  her 
life  or  health. 

"Your  husband  hasn't  done  that,  has  he?  No?  I  thought 
not.  After  all  he's  a  gentleman.  Therefore  there  is  only  one 
other  ground  on  which  you  could  establish  a  right  to  divorce, 
namely  desertion,  and  your  husband  is  not  likely  to  run  away. 
In  fact,  he  couldn't.  It  isn't  to  his  interest.  We've  seen  to 
all  that — lie  re,"  and  smiling  again,  the  lawyer  patted  the  top 
of  the  lacquered  box  that  bore  my  father's  name. 

I  was  dumbfounded.  Even  more  degrading  than  the  fetters 
whereby  the  Church  bound  me  to  my  marriage  were  the  terms 
on  which  the  law  would  release  me. 

"But  assuming  that  you  could  obtain  a  divorce,"  said  the 
lawyer,  "what  good  would  it  do  you?  You  would  have  to 
relinquish  your  title." 

"I  care  nothing  about  my  title,"  I  replied. 

"And  your  position." 

"I  care  nothing  about  that  either.'* 

' '  Come,  come, ' '  said  the  lawyer,  patting  my  arm  as  if  I  had 
been  an  angry  child  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "Don't  let  a  fit 
of  pique  or  spleen  break  up  a  marriage  that  is  so  suitable 
from  the  points  of  property  and  position.  And  then  think 
of  your  good  father.  Why  did  he  spend  all  that  money  in 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  253 

setting  a  ruined  house  on  its  legs  again  ?  That  he  might  carry 
on  his  name  in  a  noble  family,  and  through  your  children,  and 
your  children's  children.  ..." 

"Then  the  law  can  do  nothing  for  me?"  I  said,  feeling 
sick  and  sore. 

"Sorry,  very  sorry,  but  under  present  conditions,  as  far  as 
I  can  yet  see,  nothing,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"Good-day,  sir,"  I  said,  and  before  he  could  have  known 
what  I  was  doing  I  had  leapt  up,  left  the  room,  and  was 
hurrying  downstairs. 

My  heart  was  in  still  fiercer  rebellion  now.  I  would  go 
home.  I  would  appeal  to  my  father.  Hard  as  he  had  always 
been  with  me  he  was  at  least  a  man,  not  a  cold  abstraction, 
like  the  Church  and  the  law,  without  bowels  of  compassion  or 
sense  of  human  suffering. 

SIXTIETH  CHAPTER 

ALTHOUGH  I  had  sent  word  that  I  was  coming  home,  there  was 
no  one  to  welcome  me  when  I  arrived. 

Aunt  Bridget  was  out  shopping,  and  Betsy  Beauty  (in  the 
sulks  with  me,  as  I  afterwards  heard,  for  not  asking  her  to 
the  house-party)  had  run  upstairs  on  hearing  our  horn,  so  I 
went  direct  to  my  father's  room. 

Xessy  MacLeod  answered  my  knock,  but  instead  of  opening 
the  door  to  let  me  in,  she  slid  out  like  a  cat  and  closed  it 
behind  her.  Never  had  her  ungainly  figure,  her  irregular 
features,  and  her  red  head  seemed  to  me  so  repugnant.  I  saw 
at  once  that  she  was  giving  herself  the  airs  of  housekeeper,  and 
I  noticed  that  she  was  wearing  the  bunch  of  keys  which  used 
to  dangle  from  Aunt  Bridget 's  waist  when  I  was  a  child. 

"Your  father  is  ill,"  she  said. 

I  told  her  I  knew  that,  and  it  was  one  of  the  reasons  I  was 
there. 

"Seriously  ill,"  she  said,  standing  with  her  back  to  the  door. 
' '  The  doctor  says  he  is  to  be  kept  perfectly  quiet. ' ' 

Indignant  at  the  effrontery  of  the  woman  who  was  trying 
to  keep  me  out  of  my  father 's  room,  I  said : 

"Let  me  pass,  please." 

"S'sh!  He  has  a  temperature,  and  I  don't  choose  that 
anybody  shall  disturb  him  to-day." 

"Let  me  pass,"  I  repeated,  and  I  must  have  pitched  my 
voice  so  high  that  my  father  heard  it. 


254  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Is  that  Mary?"  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
whereupon  Nessy  beat  a  retreat,  and  at  the  next  moment  I 
was  in  my  father's  room. 

His  massive  and  powerful  head  was  propped  up  with 
pillows  in  the  camp-bed  which  was  all  he  ever  slept  on,  and 
he  was  looking  so  ill  and  changed  in  so  short  a  time  that  I 
was  shocked,  as  well  as  ashamed  at  the  selfishness  of  having 
thought  only  of  myself  all  the  morning. 

But  he  would  listen  to  no  sympathy,  protesting  there  was 
little  or  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  that  "Conrad  was 
croaking  about  cancer, ' '  but  the  doctor  was  a  fool. 

"What  about  yourself,  though?"  he  said.  "Great  doinga 
at  the  Castle,  they  're  telling  me. ' ' 

I  thought  this  a  favourable  opportunity  to  speak  about  my 
own  affairs,  so  I  began  on  my  story  again,  and  though  I  found 
it  harder  to  tell  now  that  my  listener  was  my  father,  I 
struggled  on  and  on,  as  well  as  I  could  for  the  emotion  that 
was  choking  me. 

I  thought  he  would  pity  me.  I  expected  him  to  be  angry. 
Although  he  was  showing  me  some  of  the  contemptuous 
tenderness  which  he  had  always  assumed  towards  my  mother, 
yet  I  was  his  daughter,  and  I  felt  sure  that  he  would  want 
to  leap  out  of  bed  that  he  might  take  my  husband  by  the  throat 
and  shake  him  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat.  But  what  happened 
was  something  quite  different. 

Hardly  had  I  begun  when  he  burst  out  laughing. 

' '  God  bless  my  soul, ' '  he  cried,  ' '  you  're  never  going  to  lose 
your  stomach  over  a  thing  like  that?" 

I  thought  he  had  not  understood  me,  so  I  tried  to  speak 
plainer. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  " Sweethearting  some  other  woman,  is 
he?  Well,  what  of  it?  He  isn't  the  first  husband  who  has 
done  the  like,  and  I  guess  he  won't  be  the  last." 

Still  I  thought  I  had  not  made  myself  clear,  so  I  said  my 
husband  had  been  untrue  to  me,  that  his  infidelities  under 
my  own  roof  had  degraded  me  in  my  own  eyes  and  everybody 
else's,  that  I  could  not  bear  to  live  such  a  life  any  longer 
and  consequently  .  .  . 

"Consequently,"  said  my  father,  "you  come  to  me  to  fight 
your  battles  for  you.  No,  no,  fight  them  yourself,  gel.  No 
father-in-law  ought  to  interfere." 

It  was  a  man's  point  of  view  I  suppose,  but  I  was  ready  to 
cry  with  vexation  and  disappointment,  and  though  I  con- 
quered the  impulse  to  do  that  I  could  go  no  farther. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  255 

''Who's  the  woman?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  it  was  one  of  our  house-party. 

"Then  cut  her  out.  I  guess  you're  clever  enough  to  do  it, 
whoever  she  is.  You've  got  the  looks  too,  and  I  don't  grudge 
you  the  money.  Cut  her  out — that's  the  best  advice  I  can 
give  you.  Make  your  husband  see  you're  the  better  woman 
of  the  two.  Cut  her  out,  I  'm  saying,  and  don 't  come  whining 
here  like  a  cry-baby,  who  runs  to  her  grandmother's  apron- 
strings  at  the  first  scratch  she  gets  outside. ' ' 

He  had  been  reaching  forward,  but  he  now  fell  back  on  his 
pillows,  saying: 

"I  see  how  it  is,  though.  "Women  without  children  are 
always  vapouring  about  their  husbands,  as  if  married  life 
ought  to  be  a  garden  of  Eden.  One  woman,  one  man,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  balderdash.  I  sot  your  Aunt  Bridget  on  you 
before,  gel,  and  I  '11  have  to  do  it  again  I  'm  thinking.  But  go 
away  now.  If  I'm  to  get  better  I  must  have  rest.  Nessy!" 
(calling)  "I've  a  mort  o'  things  to  do  and  most  everything  is 
on  my  shoulders.  Nessy!  My  medicine!  Nessy!  Nessy! 
Where  in  the  world  has  that  girl  gone  to  ? " 

' '  I  'm  here,  Daniel, ' '  said  Nessy  McLeod  coming  back  to  the 
room ;  and  as  I  went  out  and  passed  down  the  corridor,  with  a 
crushed  and  broken  spirit  and  the  tears  ready  to  gush  from 
my  eyes,  I  heard  her  coaxing  him  in  her  submissive  and 
insincere  tones,  while  he  blamed  and  scolded  her. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Aunt  Bridget  came  to  me  in  my 
mother's  room.  Never  in  my  life  before  had  I  been  pleased 
to  see  her.  She,  at  least,  would  see  my  situation  with  a 
woman's  eyes.  But  I  was  doomed  to  another  disappointment. 

"Goodness  me,  girl,"  she  cried,  "what's  this  your  father 
tells  me?  One  of  your  own  guests,  is  it?  That  one  with 
the  big  eyes  I'll  go  bail.  Well,  serve  you  right,  I  say,  for 
bringing  a  woman  like  that  into  the  house  with  your  husband 
— so  smart  and  such  a  quality  toss  with  her.  If  you  were 
lonely  coming  home  why  didn't  you  ask  your  aunt  or  your 
first  cousin?  There  would  have  been  no  trouble  with  your 
husband  then — not  about  me  at  all  events.  But  what  are  you 
thinking  of  doing?" 

"Getting  a  divorce,"  I  answered,  firmly,  for  my  heart  was 
now  aflame. 

If  I  had  held  a  revolver  in  Aunt  Bridget's  face  she  could 
not  have  looked  more  shocked. 

"Mary  O'Neill,  are  you  mad?"  she  cried.     "Divorce  in- 


256  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

deed !  No  woman  of  our  family  has  ever  disgraced  herself 
like  that.  What  will  your  father  say?  What's  to  happen  to 
Betsy  Beauty?  What  are  people  going  to  think  about  me?" 

I  answered  that  I  had  not  made  my  marriage,  and  those 
who  had  made  it  must  take  the  consequences. 

"What  does  that  matter  now?  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 
women  have  married  the  wrong  man  of  their  own  free  will, 
but  if  every  woman  who  has  made  a  rue-bargain  were  to  try 
to  get  out  of  it  your  way  where  would  the  world  be,  I  wonder  ? 
Perhaps  you  think  you  could  marry  somebody  else,  but  you 
couldn't.  What  decent  man  wants  to  marry  a  divorced 
woman  even  if  she  is  the  injured  party?" 

' '  Then  you  think  I  ought  to  submit — tamely  submit  to  such 
infidelities?"  I  asked. 

"Sakes  alive,"  said  Aunt  Bridget,  "what  else  can  you 
do?  Men  are  polygamous  animals,  and  we  women  have  to 
make  up  our  minds  to  it.  Goodness  knows  I  had  to  when 
the  old  colonel  used  to  go  hanging  around  those  English 
barmaids  at  the  'Cock  and  Hen.'  Be  a  little  blind,  girl- 
that 's  what  nine  wives  out  of  ten  have  to  be  every  day  and 
every  night  and  all  the  world  over." 

"Will  that  make  my  husband  any  better?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  say  it  will,"  said  Aunt  Bridget.  "It  will  make 
you  better,  though.  What  the  eye  doesn  't  see  the  heart  doesn  't 
grieve  for.  That's  something,  isn't  it?" 

When  I  went  to  bed  that  night  my  whole  soul  was  in  revolt. 
The  Church,  the  law,  society,  parental  power,  all  the  con- 
ventions and  respectabilities  seemed  to  be  in  a  conspiracy 
to  condone  my  husband's  offence  and  to  make  me  his  scape- 
goat, doomed  to  a  life  of  hypocrisy  and  therefore  immorality 
and  shame.  I  would  die  rather  than  endure  it.  Yes,  I  would 
die  that  very  day  rather  than  return  to  my  husband's  house 
and  go  through  the  same  ordeal  again. 

But  next  morning  when  I  thought  of  Martin,  as  I  always  did 
on  first  awakening,  I  told  myself  that  I  would  live  and  be  a 
clean  woman  in  my  own  eyes  whatever  the  World  might  think 
of  me. 

Martin  was  now  my  only  refuge,  so  I  would  tell  him  every- 
thing. It  vrould  be  hard  to  do  that,  but  no  matter,  I  would 
crush  down  my  modesty  and  tell  him  everything.  And  then, 
whatever  he  told  me  to  do  I  should  do  it. 

I  knew  quite  well  what  my  resolution  meant,  what  it  implied 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  257 

and  involved,  but  still  I  thought,  "Whatever  he  tells  me  to 
do  I  will  do  it." 

I  remembered  what  the  Countess  in  Rome  had  said  about 
a  life  of  "complete  emancipation"  as  an  escape  from  un- 
happy marriage,  and  even  yet  I  thought  "Whatever  he  tells 
me  to  do  I  mill  do  it." 

After  coming  to  that  conclusion  I  felt  more  at  ease  and 
got  up  to  dress. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  I  looked  down  into  the 
orchard,  where  the  apples  were  reddening  under  the  sun- 
shine and  the  gooseberries  were  ripening  under  their  hang- 
ing boughs,  when  in  the  quiet  summer  air  I  heard  a  footstep 
approaching. 

An  elderly  woman  in  an  old-fashioned  quakerish  bonnet 
was  coming  up  the  drive.  She  carried  a  little  bunch  of  red 
and  white  roses,  and  her  face,  which  was  very  sweet  and 
simple,  wore  the  pathetic  expression  of  a  child  in  trouble. 

It  was  Martin's  mother.  She  was  coming  to  see  me,  and 
at  the  first  sight  of  her  something  told  me  that  my  brave  reso- 
lution was  about  to  be  broken,  and  I  was  going  to  be  shaken 
to  the  depths  of  my  being. 

I  heard  the  bell  of  the  front  door  ringing.  After  a 
moment  a  maid  came  up  and  said: 

"Mrs.  Doctor  Conrad  has  called  to  see  your  ladyship.'* 

"Bring  her  here,"  I  answered. 

My  heart  was  in  my  mouth  already. 

SIXTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

WHEN  Martin's  mother  came  into  the  room  she  looked 
nervous  and  almost  frightened,  as  if  she  had  charged  herself 
with  a  mission  which  she  was  afraid  to  fulfil.  But  I  put  her 
to  sit  in  my  mother's  easy  chair  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  it 
myself,  and  then  she  seemed  calmer  and  more  comfortable. 

In  spite  of  the  silver  threads  in  the  smooth  hair  under  her 
poke  bonnet  her  dear  face  was  still  the  face  of  a  child,  and 
never  before  had  it  seemed  to  me  so  helpless  and  childlike. 

After  a  moment  we  began  to  talk  of  Martin.  I  said  it  must 
be  a  great  happiness  to  her  to  have  him  back  after  his  long 
and  perilous  voyage;  and  she  answered  that  it  was,  but  his 
visit  was  so  short,  only  four  days  altogether,  although  the 
doctor  and  she  had  looked  forward  to  it  so  long. 

"That's  not  Martin's  fault,  though,"  she  said.  "He's  such 
a  good  son.  I  really,  really  think  no  mother  ever  had  such  a 

R 


258  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

good  son.  But  when  children  grow  up  they  can't  always  be 
thinking  of  the  old  people,  can  they?  That's  why  I  say 
to  the  doctor,  'Doctor,'  I  say,  'perhaps  we  were  the  same 
ourselves  when  we  were  young  and  first  loved  each  other.'  ' 

Already  I  thought  I  saw  vaguely  what  the  dear  soul  had 
•iome  to  tell  me,  but  I  only  said  I  supposed  Martin  was  still 
with  them. 

She  told  me  no,  he  had  gone  to  King  George's.  That  was 
his  old  school,  and  being  prize-giving  day  the  masters  had 
asked  him  to  the  sports  and  to  the  dinner  that  was  to  be 
given  that  night  before  the  breaking-up  for  the  holidays. 

' '  The  boys  will  give  him  a  cheer,  I  know  they  will, ' '  she  said. 

I  said  of  course  he  would  be  back  to-morrow,  but  again 
she  said  no ;  he  had  gone  for  good,  and  they  had  said  good-bye 
to  him.  When  he  left  King  George's  he  was  to  go  on  to 
Castle  Raa,  Didn't  I  know  that?  He  had  said  he  would 
telegraph  to  me.  But  being  from  home  perhaps  I  had  not 
yet  received  his  message.  Oh  yes,  he  was  going  on  to  the  Castle 
to-morrow  night  and  would  stay  there  until  it  was  time  to 
leave  the  island. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  I  said,  hardly  knowing  with  what  fervour 
I  had  said  it,  until  I  saw  the  same  expression  of  fear  come 
back  to  the  sweet  old  face.  . 

"Martin  will  be  glad,  too,"  she  said,  "and  that's  .  .  . 
that's  why  I've  come  to  see  you." 

"That?" 

"You  won't  be  cross  with  me,  will  you?  But  Martin  is 
so  fond  of  you.  ...  He  always  has  been  fond  of  you,  ever 
since  he  was  a  boy  .  .  .  but  this  time  .  .  .  ' 

"Yes?" 

"This  time  I  thought  ...  I  really,  really  thought  he  was 
too  fond  of  you." 

I  had  to  hold  my  breast  to  keep  down  the  cry  of  joy  that 
was  rising  to  my  throat,  but  the  dear  soul  saw  nothing. 

"Not  that  he  said  so — not  to  say  said  so,  but  it's  a  mother 
to  see  things,  isn't  it?  And  he  was  talking  and  talking  so 
much  about  Mary  O'Neill  that  I  was  frightened — really 
frightened." 

"Frightened?" 

"He's  so  tender-hearted,  you  see.  And  then  you  .  .  . 
you're  such  a  wonderful  woman  grown.  Tommy  the  Mate 
sajTs  there  hasn't  been  the  like  of  you  on  this  island  since  they 
laid  your  mother  under  the  sod.  It's  truth  enough,  too — 


I  PALL  IN  LOVE  259 

gospel  truth.  And  Martin — Martin  says  there  isn't  your 
equal,  no,  not  in  London  itself  neither.  So  .  .  .  so,"  she 
said,  trembling  and  stammering,  "I  was  thinking  ...  I 
was  thinking  he  was  only  flesh  and  blood  like  the  rest  of  us, 
poor  boy,  and  if  he  got  to  be  too  fond  of  you  .  .  .  now  that 
you're  married  and  have  a  husband,  you  know.  ..." 

The  trembling  and  stammering  stopped  her  for  a  moment. 

"They're  saying  you  are  not  very  happy  in  your  marriage 
neither.  Times  and  times  I've  heard  people  saying  he  isn't 
kind  to  you,  and  they  married  you  against  your  will.  ...  So 
I  was  telling  myself  if  that's  so,  and  Martin  and  you  came 
together  now,  and  you  encouraged  him,  and  let  him  go  on 
.  .  .  and  anything  came  of  it  ...  any  trouble  or  disgrace  or 
the  like  of  that  ...  it  would  be  such  a  terrible  cruel  shock- 
ing thing  for  the  boy  .  .  .  just  when  everybody's  talking 
about  him  and  speaking  so  well  too." 

It  was  out  at  last.  Her  poor  broken-hearted  story  was 
told.  Being  a  married  woman,  unhappily  married,  too,  I 
was  a  danger  to  her  beloved  son,  and  she  had  come  to  me 
in  her  sweet,  unmindful,  motherly  selfishness  to  ask  me  to 
protect  him  against  myself. 

"Whiles  and  whiles  I've  been  thinking  of  it,"  she  said. 
"  'What  will  I  do?'  I've  been  asking  myself,  and  sometimes 
I've  been  thinking  I  would  speak  to  Martin.  I  didn't  dare 
do  it,  though.  But  when  I  heard  last  night  that  you  had 
come  home  to  see  your  father,  I  said:  'Doctor,  I'll  go  over 
and  speak  to  herself.'  'You'll  never  do  that,  Christian  Ann,' 
said  the  doctor.  'Yes,  I  will,'  I  said.  'I'll  speak  to  the 
young  mistress  herself.  She  may  be  a  great  lady  now,  but 
haven't  I  nursed  her  on  my  knee?  She'll  never  do  anything 
to  harm  my  boy,  if  I  ask  her  not  to.  No  indeed  she  won't. 
Not  Mary  O'Neill.  I'll  never  believe  it  of  her.  Never  in 
this  world.'  " 

The  sweet  old  face  was  beaming  but  it  was  wet  with  tears, 
too,  and  while  trying  to  get  out  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
she  was  fumbling  with  the  flowers  which  she  was  still  hold- 
ing and  passing  from  hand  to  hand. 

"Let  me  take  the  roses,"  I  said  as  well  as  I  could,  for  I 
could  scarcely  say  anything. 

"I  brought  them  for  you,"  she  said,  and  then  she  laughed, 
a  little  confusedly,  at  her  own  forgetfulness. 

"To  be  sure  they're  nothing  to  the  green-house  ones  you'll 
have  at  the  Castle,  but  I  thought  you'd  like  them  for  all  that 


260  THE   WOMAN  THOU   GAYEST   ME 

They're  from  the  tree  outside  the  window  of  your  own  little 
room.  We  call  it  your  room  still — the  one  you  slept  in  when 
you  came  in  your  little  velvet  frock  and  pinnie,  singing 
carols  to  my  door.  'Mary  O'Neill's  room,'  Martin  called  it 
then,  and  it's  been  the  same  to  us  ever  since." 

This  touched  me  so  deeply  that,  before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  I  was  putting  my  arm  about  her  waist  and  asking  her 
to  tell  me  what  she  wished  me  to  do  and  I  would  do  it. 

"Will  you,  though?"  she  said,  and  then  one  by  one  she 
propounded  the  artless  little  schemes  she  had  concocted  to 
cure  Martin  of  what  she  conceived  to  be  his  love  for  me. 

Her  first  thought  was  that  I  might  make  excuse  of  my 
father's  illness  to  remain  where  I  was  until  the  time  came 
for  Martin  to  leave  the  island;  but  she  repented  of  this  al- 
most immediately,  remembering  that  Martin  was  set  on  seeing 
me,  ('I  must  see  her,'  he  had  said)  and  if  he  did  not  see  me 
he  would  be  so  downhearted. 

Then  she  thought  I  might  praise  up  my  husband  to  Martin, 
saying  what  a  fine  man  he  was  to  be  sure,  and  how  good  he 
had  been  to  me,  and  what  a  proud  woman  I  was  to  be  mar- 
ried to  him;  but  she  was  ashamed  of  that  almost  as  soon  as 
she  had  said  it,  for  it  might  not  be  true,  and  Martin  might 
see  I  was  pretending. 

Finally,  she  suggested  that  in  order  to  create  a  coolness 
between  Martin  and  myself  I  might  try  not  to  be  so  nice  to 
him,  speaking  short  to  him  sometimes,  and  even  harsh  and 
angry;  but  no,  that  would  be  too  cruel,  especially  from  me, 
after  all  these  years,  just  when  he  was  going  so  far  away,  too, 
and  only  the  Lord  and  the  blessed  saints  knew  what  was 
to  become  of  him. 

It  was  Martin,  Martin,  always  Martin.  Still  in  her  sweet 
motherly  selfishness  she  could  think  of  nobody  else.  Fondly 
as  she  loved  me,  it  never  occurred  to  her  for  a  moment  that 
if  I  did  what  she  wished  and  sent  Martin  away  from  me,  I 
too  would  suffer.  But  a  harder  heart  than  mine  would  have 
melted  at  the  sight  of  her  perplexity  and  distress,  and 
when  with  a  helpless  look  she  said: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  to  do — I  really,  really  don't," 
I  comforted  her  (needing  comfort  so  much  myself),  and  told 
her  I  would  find  a  way  of  my  own  to  do  what  she  desired. 

"Will  you,  though?"  she  said. 

" Indeed  I  will." 

"And  you  won't  send  him  away  sore-hearted,  either?" 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  261 

"Indeed  I  won't." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  that.  May  the  Lord  and  His 
holy  Mother  bless  you!" 

She  was  weeping  tender,  copious,  blessed  tears  by  this 
time,  but  there  were  smiles  behind  them. 

"Not  that  there's  another  woman  in  the  world  I  would 
rather  give  him  to  if  things  were  as  they  used  to  be.  But 
they're  different  now,  are  they  not?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  they're  different  now,"  I  answered. 

"But  are  you  sure  you're  not  cross. with  me  for  coming?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  I  said,  and  it  was  all  I  could  say  for  my 
voice  was  failing  me. 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  inexpressible  relief  and  then  rose  to  go. 

"I  must  be  going  now.  The  doctor  is  digging  in  the 
garden  and  he  hasn't  had  his  breakfast.  But  I  put  the  pot 
on  the  slouree  to  boil  and  it  will  be  ready  for  the  porridge. ' ' 

She  got  as  far  as  the  door  and  then  turned  and  said : 

' '  I  wish  I  had  a  photo  of  you — a  right  one,  just  as  you  are 
at  this  very  minute.  I  'd  hang  it  in  your  own  room,  and  times 
and  times  in  the  day  I'd  be  running  upstairs  to  look  at  it. 
But  it's  all  as  one.  I've  got  a  photo  of  you  here,"  (touching 
her  breast)  "and  sometimes  I  can  see  it  as  plain  as  plain." 

I  could  not  speak  after  that,  but  I  kissed  her  as  she  was 
going  out,  and  she  said: 

"That's  nice,  now!  Good-bye,  my  chree!  You'll  not  be 
going  home  until  to-morrow,  it's  like,  so  perhaps  111  be 
putting  another  sight  on  you.  Good-bye!" 

I  went  to  the  window  to  watch  her  as  she  walked  down 
the  drive.  She  was  wiping  her  eyes,  but  her  head  was  up 
and  I  thought  her  step  was  light,  and  I  was  sure  her  face 
was  shining. 

God  bless  her!  The  dear  sweet  woman!  Such  women 
as  she  is,  and  my  mother  was — so  humble  and  loving,  so 
guileless  and  pure,  never  saying  an  unkind  word  or  thinking 
an  unkind  thought — are  the  flowers  of  the  world  that  make 
the  earth  smell  sweet. 

When  she  was  gone  and  I  remembered  the  promise  I  had 
made  to  her  I  asked  myself  what  was  to  become  of  me.  If  I 
could  neither  divorce  my  husband  under  any  circumstances 
without  breaking  a  sacrament  of  the  Church,  nor  love  Martin 
and  be  loved  by  him  without  breaking  the  heart  of  his 
mother,  where  was  I  ? 


262  THE   WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST   ME 

I  intended  to  go  home  the  following  morning;  I  was  to 
meet  Martin  the  following  night.  What  was  I  to  say  ?  What 
was  I  to  do? 

All  day  long  these  questions  haunted  me  and  I  could  find 
no  answers.  But  towards  evening  I  took  my  troubles  where 
I  had  often  taken  them — to  Father  Dan. 

SIXTY-SECOND    CHAPTER 

THE  door  of  the  Presbytery  was  opened  by  Father  Dan 's  Irish 
housekeeper,  a  good  old  soul  whose  attitude  to  her  master 
was  that  of  a  "moithered"  mother  to  a  wilful  child. 

All  the  way  up  the  narrow  staircase  to  his  room,  she 
grumbled  about  his  reverence.  Unless  he  was  sickening  for 
the  scarlet  fever  she  didn't  know  in  her  seven  sinses  what 
was  a-matter  with  him  these  days.  He  was  as  white  as  a 
ghost,  and  as  thin  as  a  shadder,  and  no  wonder  neither,  for 
he  didn't  eat  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 

Yesterday  itself  she  had  cooked  him  a  chicken  as  good  as  I 
could  get  at  the  Big  House;  "done  to  a  turn,  too,  with  a 
nice  bit  of  Irish  bacon  on  top,  and  a  bowl  of  praties  biled  in 
their  jackets  and  a  basin  of  beautiful  new  buttermilk;"  but 
no,  never  a  taste  nor  a  sup  did  he  take  of  it. 

"It's  just  timpting  Providence  his  reverence  is,  and  it'll 
be  glory  to  God  if  you'll  tell  him  so." 

"What's  that  you're  saying  about  his  reverence,  Mrs. 
Cassidy?"  cried  Father  Dan  from  the  upper  landing. 

"I'm  saying  you're  destroying  yourself  with  your  fasting 
and  praying  and  your  midnight  calls  at  mountain  cabins, 
and  never  a  ha'porth  of  anything  in  your  stomach  to  do  it  on. " 

"Whisht  then,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  it's  tay-time,  isn't  it?  So 
just  step  back  to  your  kitchen  and  put  on  your  kittle,  and 
bring  up  two  of  your  best  china  cups  and  saucers,  and  a  nice 
piece  of  buttered  toast,  not  forgetting  a  thimbleful  of  some- 
thing neat,  and  then  it's  the  mighty  proud  woman  ye '11  be 
entoirely  to  be  waiting  for  once  on  the  first  lady  in  the 
island.  .  .  .  Come  in,  my  daughter,  come  in." 

He  was  laughing  as  he  let  loose  his  Irish  tongue,  but  I 
could  see  that  his  housekeeper  had  not  been  wrong  and  that 
he  looked  worn  and  troubled. 

As  soon  as  he  had  taken  me  into  his  cosy  study  and  put 
me  to  sit  in  the  big  chair  before  the  peat  and  wood  fire,  I 
would  have  begun  on  my  errand,  but  not  a  word  would  he 
hear  until  the  tea  had  come  up  and  I  had  taken  a  cup  of  it 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  263 

Then  stirring  the  peats  for  light  as  well  as  warmth,  (for 
the  room  was  dark  with  its  lining  of  books,  and  the  evening 
was  closing  in)  he  said: 

"Now  what  is  it?  Something  serious — I  can  see  that 
much. ' ' 

"It  is  serious,  Father  Dan." 

"Tell  me  then,-"  he  said,  and  as  well  as  I  could  I  told 
him  my  story. 

I  told  him  that  since  I  had  seen  him  last,  during  that 
violent  scene  at  Castle  Raa,  my  relations  with  my  husband 
had  become  still  more  painful ;  I  told  him  that,  seeing  I  could 
not  endure  any  longer  the  degradation  of  the  life  I  was  living, 
I  had  thought  about  divorce;  I  told  him  that  going  first  to 
the  Bishop  and  afterwards  to  my  father's  advocate  I  had 
learned  that  neither  the  Church  nor  the  law,  for  their  differ- 
ent reasons,  could  grant  me  the  relief  I  required;  and  finally, 
in  a  faint  voice  (almost  afraid  to  hear  myself  speak  it),  I  told 
him  my  solemn  and  sacred  secret — that  whatever  happened 
I  could  not  continue  to  live  where  I  was  now  living  because 
I  loved  somebody  else  than  my  husband. 

"While  I  was  speaking  Father  Dan  was  shuffling  his  feet 
and  plucking  at  his  shabby  cassock,  and  as  soon  as  I  had 
finished  he  flashed  out  on  me  with  an  anger  I  had  never 
seen  in  his  face  or  heard  in  his  voice  before. 

"I  know  who  it  is,"  he  said.     "It's  Martin  Conrad." 

I  was  so  startled  by  this  that  I  was  beginning  to  ask  how 
he  knew,  when  he  cried: 

"Never  mind  how  I  know.  Perhaps  you  think  an  old 
priest  has  no  eyes  for  anything  but  his  breviary,  eh?  It's 
young  Martin,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"The  wretch,  the  rascal,  the  scoundrel!  If  he  ever  dares 
to  come  to  this  house  again,  I'll  slam  the  door  in  his  face." 

I  knew  he  loved  Martin  almost  as  much  as  I  did,  so  I  paid 
no  heed  to  the  names  he  was  calling  him,  but  I  tried  to  say 
that  I  alone  had  been  to  blame,  and  that  Martin  had  done 
nothing. 

"Don't  tell  me  he  has  done  nothing,"  cried  Father  Dan. 
"I  know  what  he  has  done.  He  has  told  you  he  loves  you, 
hasn't  he?" 

"No." 

"He  has  been  colloguing  with  you,  then,  and  getting  you 
to  say  things?" 


264  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Never." 

"Pitying  and  sympathising  with  you,  anyway,  in  your 
relations  with  your  husoand?" 

"Not  for  one  moment." 

"He  had  better  not!  Big  man  as  he  is  in  England  now, 
I'll  warm  his  jacket  for  him  if  he  comes  here  making  mischief 
with  a  child  of  mine.  But  thank  the  Lord  and  the  holy 
saints  he's  going  aw£y  soon,  so  you'll  see  no  more  of  him." 

"But  he  is  coming  to  Castle  Raa,"  I  said,  "and  I  am  to  see 
him  to-morrow  night." 

"That  too!     The  young  scoundrel!" 

I  explained  that  my  husband  had  invited  him,  being 
prompted  to  do  so  by  the  other  woman. 

"Worse  and  worse!"  cried  Father  Dan.  "Don't  you  see 
that  they're  laying  a  trap  for  you,  and  like  two  young  fools 
you're  walking  directly  into  it.  But  no  matter!  You 
mustn't  go." 

I  told  him  that  I  should  be  compelled  to  do  so,  for  Martin 
was  coming  on  my  account  only,  and  I  could  neither  tell 
him  the  truth  nor  make  an  excuse  that  would  not  be  a 
falsehood. 

"Well,  well,  perhaps  you're  right  there.  It's  not  the  best 
way  to  meet  temptation  to  be  always  running  away  from  it. 
That's  Irish,  but  it's  true  enough,  though.  You  must  con- 
quer this  temptation,  my  child;  you  must  fight  it  and  over- 
come it." 

"But  I've  tried  and  tried  and  I  cannot,"  I  said. 

And  then  I  told  him  the  story  of  my  struggle — how  love 
had  been  no  happiness  to  me  but  only  a  cruel  warfare,  how  I 
had  suffered  and  prayed  and  gone  to  mass  and  confession, 
yet  all  to  no  purpose,  for  my  affection  for  Martin  was  like  a 
blazing  fire  which  nothing  could  put  out. 

Father  Dan's  hands  and  lips  were  trembling  while  I  spoke 
and  I  could  see  that  he  was  shuddering  with  pity  for  me, 
so  I  went  on  to  say  that  if  God  had  put  this  pure  and  holy 
love  into  my  heart  could  it  be  wrong — 

"Stop  a  minute,"  cried  Father  Dan.  "Who  says  God 
put  it  there?  And  who  informed  you  it  was  pure  and  holy? 
Let  us  see  where  we  are.  Come,  now.  You  say  the  Bishop 
told  you  that  you  could  never  be  divorced  under  any  cir- 
cumstances ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Yet  you  wish  to  leave  your  husband?" 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  265 

"How  can  1  help  it?  The  life  I  have  been  living  is  too 
horrible. ' ' 

"Never  mind  that  now.  You  wish  to  leave  your  husband, 
don't  you?" 

"I  ...  I  must." 

"And  you  want  to  go  to  this  .  .  .  this  young  ...  in 
short,  you  want  to  go  to  Martin  Conrad?  That's  the  plain 
truth,  isn't  it?  Don't  deny  it.  ...  Very  well,  let  us  call 
things  by  their  proper  names.  What  is  the  fact?  You  are 
asking  me — me,  your  spiritual  Father — to  allow  you  to  live  a 
life  of  open  adultery.  That's  what  it  comes  to.  You  know 
it  is,  and  God  and  His  holy  Mother  have  mercy  on  your 
soul!" 

I  was  so  startled  and  shocked  by  his  fierce  assault,  and 
by  the  cruel  climax  it  had  come  to,  that  I  flung  up  my  hands 
to  my  face  and  kept  them  there,  for  I  felt  as  if  my  brain 
had  been  stunned  and  my  heart  was  bursting. 

How  long  I  sat  like  this,  with  my  hidden  face  to  the  fire, 
I  do  not  know;  but  after  a  long  silence  in  which  I  heard 
nothing  but  my  o\vn  heaving  breath,  I  became  aware  that 
Father  Dan  had  drawn  one  of  my  hands  down  to  his  knee 
and  was  smoothing  it  with  his  own. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  your  old  priest  for  telling  you  the 
truth,"  he  said.  "It's  hard  to  bear;  I  know  it's  hard; 
but  it's  as  hard  for  him  as  for  you,  my  child.  Think — only 
think  what  he  is  trying  to  save  you  from.  If  you  do  what 
you  wish  to  do,  you  will  put  yourself  out  of  communion. 
If  you  put  yourself  out  of  communion,  you  will  cease  to  be  a 
Catholic.  What  will  become  of  you  then,  my  daughter? 
What  will  be  left  to  replace  the  consolations  of  the  Church — 
in  sorrow,  in  suffering,  in  the  hour  of  death?  Have  you 
never  thought  of  that?" 

I  never  had.     It  was  thrilling  through  and  through  me. 

"You  say  you  cannot  live  any  longer  with  your  husband 
because  he  has  broken  the  vow  he  made  to  you  at  your 
marriage.  But  think  how  many  many  thousands  of  poor 
women  all  the  world  over  are  doing  it  every  day — living 
with  adulterous  husbands  for  the  sake  of  their  homes  and 
children.  And  not  for  the  sake  of  their  homes  and  children 
only,  but  for  the  sake  of  their  souls  and  their  religion. 
Blessed,  blessed  martyrs,  though  we  know  nothing  about 
them,  holding  society  and  the  Church  and  the  human  family 
together. ' ' 


266  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  was  trembling  all  over.  I  felt  as  if  Father  Dan  were 
trying  to  take  away  from  me  the  only  sweet  and  precious 
thing  in  my  life  that  was  left. 

"Then  you  think  you  cannot  live  without  the  one  you 
love,  because  all  your  heart  is  full  of  him.  But  think  of  the 
holy  women,  the  holy  saints,  who  have  gone  through  the  same 
temptation — fighting  against  it  with  all  the  strength  of  their 
souls  until  the  very  wounds  of  our  blessed  Lord  have  been 
marked  on  their  bodies." 

He  was  creeping  closer  to  my  side.  His  voice  was  quivering 
at  my  ear.  I  was  struggling  hard,  and  still  trembling  all  over. 

"Hold  fast  by  the  Church,  my  child.  It  is  your  only 
refuge.  Remember  that  God  made  your  marriage  and  you 
cannot  break  it  without  forsaking  your  faith.  Can  anything 
be  good  that  is  bought  at  such  a  price?  Nothing  in  this 
.world!  When  you  meet  to-morrow  night — you  two  children 
— tell  him  that.  Tell  him  I  told  you  to  say  so.  ...  I 
love  you  both.  Don't  break  your  old  priest's  heart.  He's 
in  trouble  enough  for  you  already.  Don't  let  him  think 
that  he  must  lose  you  altogether.  And  then  remember  your 
mother,  too — that  saint  in  heaven  who  suffered  so  long  and 
was  patient.  .  .  .  Everything  will  depend  upon  you,  my 
child.  In  matters  of  this  kind  the  woman  is  the  stronger 
vessel.  Be  strong  for  him  also.  Renounce  your  guilty  love, 
my  daughter — " 

"But  I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  I  said.  "I  love  him,  and  I 
cannot  give  him  up ! " 

"Let  us  ask  God  to  help  you,"  said  Father  Dan,  and  still 
holding  my  hand  he  drew  me  down  to  my  knees  and  knelt 
beside  me.  The  room  was  dark  by  this  time,  and  only  the 
sullen  glow  from  the  peat  fire  was  on  our  faces. 

Then  in  a  low  voice,  so  low  that  it  was  like  his  throbbing 
whisper  before  the  altar,  when  he  raised  the  Sacred  Host, 
Father  Dan  prayed  for  me  (calling  me  his  dear  child  whom 
God  had  committed  to  his  care)  that  I  might  keep  my  mar- 
riage vow  and  be  saved  from  the  temptation  to  break  it. 

His  beautiful  prayer  or  his  throbbing  voice,  or  both  to- 
gether, had  a  great  effect  upon  me,  and  when  I  rose  to  my 
feet,  I  felt  stronger.  Although  Martin  was  as  dear  to  me  as 
ever,  I  thought  I  saw  my  way  at  last.  If  he  loved  me  as  I 
loved  him,  I  had  to  be  brave  for  both  of  us.  I  had  to  oppose 
to  the  carnal  instinct  of  love  the  spiritual  impulse  of  re- 
nunciation. Yes,  yes,  that  was  what  I  had  to  do. 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  267 

Father  Dan  saw  me  to  the  door. 

"Give  my  love  to  my  boy,"  he  said,  "and  don't  forget 
what  I  told  you  to  tell  him." 

"Ill  tell  him,"  I  replied,  for  though  I  knew  my  heart  was 
bleeding  I  felt  calm  and  more  courageous. 

It  was  milking  time  and  the  cows  were  lowing  in  the  byre 
when  I  crossed  the  fields  and  the  farm-yard  on  my  way  back 
to  my  father's  house. 

Early  next  morning  I  left  it  for  Castle  Raa. 

SIXTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

ALTHOUGH  it  was  mid-day  before  I  reached  the  Castle,  the 
gate  to  the  park  had  not  been  opened,  the  drive  was  deserted 
and  even  the  great  door  to  the  house  itself  was  closed. 

And  when,  in  answer  to  my  ringing,  one  of  the  maids  came 
after  a  certain  delay,  wearing  neither  apron  nor  cap,  I  found 
the  hall  empty  and  no  sign  of  life  in  the  house,  except  a  shrill 
chorus  of  laughter  which  came  from  the  servants'  quarters. 

' '  What 's  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  I  asked,  but  before  the  girl 
could  reply,  Price  who  had  come  down  to  take  my  wraps  said : 

"I'll  tell  your  ladyship  presently." 

As  we  were  going  upstairs  she  told  me  that  the  entire 
house-party  had  that  morning  gone  off  on  a  cruise  in  Mr. 
Eastcliff 's  yacht,  that  they  would  be  away  several  days,  and 
that  Madame  had  left  a  letter  for  me  which  was  supposed 
to  explain  everything. 

I  found  it  on  the  mantelpiece  in  my  boudoir  under  an  open 
telegram  which  had  been  stuck  into  the  edge  of  the  bevelled 
glass.  The  telegram,  which  was  addressed  to  me,  was  from 
Martin. 

"Expect  to  arrive  to-morrow  evening.  Staying  until 
Wednesday  afternoon.  If  not  convenient  wire  Principal's 
House,  King  George's  College." 

"To-morrow?" 

"That  means-  to-day,"  said  Price.     "The  telegram  came 

yesterday.    Madame  opened  it  and  she  told  me  to  say 

' '  Let  me  read  her  letter  first, ' '  I  said. 
The  letter  ran  as  follows: 

"My  Dearest  Mary, 

"You  will  be  astonished  to  find  the  house  empty  and  all 
your  racketty  guests  gone.    Let  me  explain,  and  if  you  are 


268  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

angry  about  what  has  happened  you  must  lay  all  the  blame 
on  me. 

"Well,  you  see,  my  dear,  it  was  arranged  nearly  a  month 
ago  that  before  we  left  your  delightful  house  we  should  make 
a  little  cruise  round  your  charming  island.  But  we  had  not 
expected  that  this  would  come  off  so  soon,  when  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  that  silly  Mr.  Ea&tcliff,  who  has  no  more 
brains  than  a  spring  chicken,  remembered  that  he  had 
promised  to  visit  a  friend  who  has  taken  a  shoot  in  Skye. 
Result — we  had  to  make  the  cruise  immediately  or  not  at  all, 
and  yet  behold!  our  hostess  was.  away  on  an  urgent  call  of 
sickness,  and  what  in  the  world  were  we  to  do  without  her? 

"Everybody  was  in  a  quandary — that  wise  Mr.  Vivian  say- 
ing it  would  be  'jolly  bad  form  by  Jove'  to  go  without  you, 
while  Mr.  East  cliffs  '  deeliglit  fully  vicked'  little  Camilla  de- 
clared it  would  be  'vilaynous,'  and  your  husband  vowed  that 
his  Margaret  Mary  could  not  possibly  be  left  behind. 

"It  was  then  that  a  certain  friend  of  yours  took  the  liberty 
of  remembering  that  you  did  not  like  the  sea,  and  tJiat  even 
if  you  had  been  here  and  had  consented  to  go  with  us  it  would 
have  been  only  out  of  the  sweetness  of  your  heart,  which  I've 
always  known  to  be  the  tender est  and  most  unselfish  in  the 
world. 

"This  seemed  to  satisfy  the  whole  house  and  everybody  was 
at  ease,  when  lo!  down  on  us  like  a  thunderbolt  came  the  tele- 
gram from  Mr.  Conrad.  Thinking  it  might  require  to  be 
repeated,  I  took  the  liberty  of  opening  it,  and  then  we  were 
in  a  plight,  I  assure  you. 

"What  on  earth  was  he  to  think  of  our  leaving  the  house 
ivhen  he  was  on  the  point  of  arriving?  And,  above  all,  how 
were  we  to  support  the  disappointment  of  missing  him — some 
of  us,  the  women  especially,  and  myself  in  particular,  being 
just  crazy  to  see  him  again  f 

"This  nearly  broke  down  our  plans  altogether,  but  once 
more  I  came  to  the  rescue  by  remembering  that  Mr.  Conrad 
was  not  coming  to  s£e  us  but  you,  and  that  the  very  kindest 
thing  we  could  do  for  a  serious  person  of  his  kind  would  be 
to  take  our  racketty  presence  out  of  the  way. 

"That  contented  everybody  except  my  mother,  who — would 
you  believe  it? — had  gotten  some  prudish  notions  into  her 
head  about  the  impropriety  of  leaving  you  alone,  and  de- 
clared her  intention  of  staying  behind  to  keep  you  in  counte- 
nance! We  soon  laughed  her  out  of  that,  though,  and  now,  to 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  269 

relieve  you  of  her  company,  we  are  carrying  her  away  with 
us — which  will  be  lots  of  fun,  for  she's,  as  fond  of  water  as  a 
cat  and  will  fancy  she  is  seasick  all  the  time. 

"Good-bye,  dearest!  We're  just  off.  I  envy  you.  You 
happy,  happy  girl!  I  am  sure  you  will  have  such  a  good 
time.  What  a  man!  As  natural  as  nature!  I  see  by  the 
insular  paper  that  your  islanders  adore  him. 

"Hope  you  found  your  father  better.  Another  wonderful 
man!  Such  an  original  type,  too!  Good-bye,  my  dearest 
dear,  ALMA. 

"P.S.  Have  missed  you  so  much,  darling!  Castle  Raa 
wasn't  the  same  place  without  you — I  assure  you  it  wasn't." 

While  I  was  turning  this  letter  over  in  my  hand,  wondering 
what  the  beautiful  fiend  had  meant  by  it,  my  maid,  who  was 
standing  by,  was  visibly  burning  with  a  desire  to  know  its 
contents  and  give  me  the  benefit  of  her  own  interpretation. 

I  told  her  in  general  what  Alma  had  said  and  she  burst 
into  little  screams  of  indignation. 

"Well,  the  huzzy!  The  wicked  huzzy!  That's  all  she  is, 
my  lady,  begging  your  pardon,  and  there's  no  other  name  for 
her.  Arranged  a  month  ago,  indeed!  It  was  never  thought 
of  until  last  night  after  Mr.  Conrad 's  telegram  came. ' ' 

"Then  what  does  it  mean?" 

"I  can  tell  your  ladyship  what  it  means,  if  you'll  promise 
not  to  fly  out  at  me  again.  It  means  that  Madame  wants  to 
stand  in  your  shoes,  and  wouldn't  mind  going  through  the 
divorce  court  to  do  so.  And  seeing  that  you  can't  be 
tempted  to  divorce  your  husband  because  you  are  a  Catholic, 
she  thinks  your  husband,  who  isn't,  might  be  tempted  to 
divorce  you.  So  she's  setting  a  trap  for  you,  and  she  ex- 
pects you  to  fall  into  it  while  she's  away,  and  if  you  do  .  .  ." 

"Impossible!" 

"Oh,  trust  me,  your  ladyship.  I  haven't  been  keeping  my 
ears  closed  while  your  ladyship  has  been  away,  and  if  that 
chatterbox  of  a. maid  of  hers  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  I  sup- 
pose she  would  have  been  left  behind  to  watch.  But  there's 
somebody  else  in  the  house  who  thinks  she  has  a  grievance 
against  you,  and  if  listening  at  keyholes  will  do  anything 
.  .  .  Hush!" 

Price  stopped  suddenly  with  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  then 
going  on  tiptoe  to  the  door  she  opened  it  with  a  jerk,  when 


270  THE   WOMAN   THOU   GAVEST   ME 

the  little  housekeeper  •  was  to  be  seen  rising  to  an  upright 
position  while  pretending  that  she  had  slipped. 

"I  only  came  to  ask  if  her  ladyship  had  lunched?"  she 
said. 

I  answered  that  I  had  not,  and  then  told  her  (so  as  to  give 
her  no  further  excuse  for  hanging  about  me)  that  in  future 
she  was  to  take  her  orders  from  Price — an  announcement 
which  caused  my  maid  to  stand  several  inches  taller  in  her 
shoes,  and  sent  the  housekeeper  hopping  downstairs  with  her 
beak  in  the  air  like  an  injured  cockatoo. 

All  the  afternoon  I  was  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  agitation, 
sometimes  wondering  what  Martin  would  think  of  the  bad 
manners  of  my  husband,  who  after  inviting  him  had  gone 
away  just  as  he  was  about  to  arrive;  sometimes  asking  my- 
self, with  a  quiver  of  shame,  if  he  would  imagine  that  this 
was  a  scheme  of  my  own  contriving;  but  oftenest  remember- 
ing my  resolution  of  renunciation  and  thinking  of  the  much 
fiercer  fight  that  was  before  me  now  that  I  had  to  receive 
and  part  with  him  alone. 

More  than  once  I  had  half  a  mind  to  telegraph  to  Martin 
putting  him  off,  and  though  I  told  myself  that  to  do  so 
would  not  be  renunciation  but  merely  flight  from  temptation, 
I  always  knew  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  really  wanted 
him  to  come. 

Nevertheless  I  vowed  to  my  very  soul  that  I  should  be 
strong — strong  in  every  word  and  look— and  if  Alma  was 
daring  me  I  should  defy  her,  and  she  would  see  that  I 
should  neither  yield  nor  run  away. 

Thus  I  entrenched  myself  at  last  in  a  sort  of  bright  strong 
faith  in  my  power  to  resist  temptation.  But  I  must  leave  it 
to  those  who  know  better  than  I  the  way  to  read  a  woman's 
heart  to  say  how  it  came  to  pass  that  towards  five  o'clock, 
when  I  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  and  going  on  to  my  balcony 
saw  a  jaunting-car  at  the  front  entrance,  and  then  opening 
my  door  heard  Martin's  great  voice  in  the  hall,  I  flew  down- 
stairs— literally  flew — in  my  eagerness  to  welcome  him. 

There  he  was  in  his  brown  Harris  tweeds  and  soft  slouch 
hat  with  such  an  atmosphere  of  health  and  sweep  of  winds 
about  him  as  almost  took  away  my  breath. 

"Helloa!"  he  cried,  and  I  am  sure  his  eyes  brightened  at 
the  sight  of  me  for  they  were  like  the  sea  when  the  sun 
shines  on  it. 

"You're  better,  aren't  you?"  he  said.  "No  need  to  ask 
that,  though — the  colour  in  your  face  is  wonderful. ' ' 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  271 

In  spite  of  my  resolution,  and  the  attempt  I  made  to  show 
him  only  a  kind  of  glad  seriousness,  I  could  not  help  it  if  I 
blushed.  Also  I  could  not  help  it  if,  while  going  upstairs  and 
telling  him  what  had  happened  to  the  house-party,  I  said  he 
was  doomed  to  the  disappointment  of  having  nobody  except 
myself  for  company,  and  then,  woman-like,  waited  eagerly 
for  what  he  would  say. 

"So  they're  all  gone  except  yourself,  are  they?"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  they  are,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  if  it  had  been  the  other  way  about,  and  you  had 
gone  and  they  had  stayed,  by  the  stars  of  God,  I  should  have 
been  disappointed.  But  things  being  as  they  are,  we'll 
muddle  through,  shan't  we?" 

Not  all  the  vows  in  the  world  could  prevent  me  from  find- 
ing that  answer  delightful,  and  when,  on  entering  my 
boudoir,  he  said: 

"Sorry  to  miss  Madame  though.  I  wanted  a  word  with  that 
lady  before  I  went  down  to  the  Antarctic, ' '  I  could  not  resist 
the  mischievous  impulse  to  show  him  Alma's  letter. 

While  he  read  it  his  bright  face  darkened  (for  all  the 
world  like  a  jeweller's  window  when  the  shutter  comes  down 
on  it),  and  when  he  had  finished  it  he  said  once  more: 

"I  hate  that  woman!  She's  like  a  snake.  I'd  like  to  put 
my  foot  on  it. ' ' 

And  then — 

"She  may  run  away  as  much  as  she  likes,  but  I  will  yet, 
you  go  bail,  I  will." 

He  was  covered  with  dust  and  wanted  to  wash,  so  I  rang 
for  a  maid,  who  told  me  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eastcliff  's  rooms 
had  been  prepared  for  Mr.  Conrad.  This  announcement 
(though  I  tried  to  seem  unmoved)  overwhelmed  me  with 
confusion,  seeing  that  the  rooms  in  question  almost  com- 
municated with  my  own.  But  Martin  only  laughed  and  said : 

"Stunning!  We'll  live  in  this  wing  of  the  house  and  leave 
the  rest  of  the  old  barracks  to  the  cats,  should  we  ? " 

I  was  tingling  with  joy,  but  all  the  same  I  knew  that  a 
grim  battle  was  before  me. 

SIXTY-FOURTH    CHAPTER 

BY  the  time  he  returned  from  his  room  I  had  tea  served  in 
my  boudoir,  and  while  we  sat  facing  the  open  door  to  the 
balcony  he  told  me  about  his  visit  to  his  old  school;  how  at 


272  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

the  dinner  on  the  previous  night  the  Principal  had  proposed 
his  health,  and  after  the  lads  had  sung  ' '  Forty  Years  On "  he 
had  told  them  yarns  about  his  late  expedition  until  they 
made  the  long  hiss  of  indrawn  breath  which  is  peculiar  to 
boys  when  they  are  excited ;  how  they  had  followed  him  to  his 
bedroom  as  if  he  had  been  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin  and 
questioned  him  and  clambered  over  him  until  driven  off  by 
the  house-master;  and  how,  finally,  before  he  was  out  of  bed 
this  morning  the  smallest  scholar  in  the  junior  house,  a  tiny 
little  cherub  with  the  face  of  his  mother,  had  come  knocking 
at  his  door  to  ask  if  he  wanted  a  cabin  boy. 

Martin  laughed  as  if  he  had  been  a  boy  himself  (which  he 
always  was  and  always  will  be)  while  telling  me  these  stories, 
and  I  laughed  too,  though  with  a  certain  tremor,  for  I  was 
constantly  remembering  my  resolution  and  feeling  afraid  to 
be  too  happy. 

After  tea  we  went  out  on  to  the  balcony,  and  leaned  side 
by  side  over  the  crumbling  stone  balustrade  to  look  at  the 
lovely  landscape — loveliest  when  the  sun  is  setting  on  it — 
with  the  flower-garden  below  and  the  headland  beyond, 
covered  with  heather  and  gorse  and  with  a  winding  white 
path  lying  over  it  like  the  lash  of  a  whip  until  it  dipped  down 
to  the  sea. 

"It's  a  beautiful  old  world,  though,  isn't  it?"  said  Martin. 

"Isn't  it?"  I  answered,  and  we  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  and  smiled. 

Then  we  heard  the  light  shsh  of  a  garden  hose,  and  look- 
ing down  saw  an  old  man  watering  the  geraniums. 

"Sakes  alive!  It's  Tommy  the  Mate,"  cried  Martin,  and 
leaving  me  on  the  balcony  he  went  leaping  down  the  stone 
stairway  to  greet  his  old  comrade. 

"God  bless  me!"  said  Tommy.  "Let  me  have  a  right 
look  at  ye.  Yes,  yes,  it's  himself,  for  sure." 

A  little  gale  of  tender  memories  floated  up  to  me  from  my 
childhood  at  seeing  those  two  together  again,  with  Martin 
now  standing  head  and  shoulders  above  the  old  man's 
Glengarry  cap. 

"You've  been  over  the  highways  of  the  sea,  farther  than 
Franklin  himself,  they're  telling  me,"  said  Tommy,  and 
when  Martin,  laughing  merrily,  admitted  that  he  had  been 
farther  south  at  all  events,  the  old  sailor  said: 

"Well,  well!  Think  of  that  now!  But  wasn't  I  always 
telling  the  omadhauns  what  you'd  be  doing  some  day?" 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  273 

Then  with  a  "glime"  of  his  "starboard  eye"  in  my  direc- 
tion he  said: 

"You  haven't  got  a  woman  yet  though?  .  .  .  No,  I 
thought  not.  You're  like  myself,  boy — there's  not  many  of 
them  sorts  in  for  you." 

After  that,  and  a  more  undisguised  look  my  way,  the  old 
man  talked  about  me,  still  calling  me  the  "lil  misthress"  and 
saying  they  were  putting  a  power  of  gold  on  my  fingers,  but 
he  would  be  burning  candles  to  the  miracles  of  God  to  see 
the  colour  of  it  in  my  cheeks  too. 

' '  She 's  a  plant  that  doesn  't  take  kindly  to  a  hot-house  same 
as  this,"  (indicating  the  house)  "and  shell  not  be  thriving 
until  somebody's  bedding  her  out,  I'm  thinking." 

It  was  Saturday,  and  after  dinner  Martin  proposed  that  we 
should  walk  to  the  head  of  the  cliff  to  see  Blackwater  by  night, 
which  was  a  wonderful  spectacle,  people  said,  at  the  height 
of  the  season,  so  I  put  a  silk  wrap  over  my  head  and  we  set 
out  together. 

There  was  no  moon  and  few  stars  were  visible,  but  it  was 
one  of  those  luminous  nights  in  summer  which  never  forget 
the  day.  Therefore  we  walked  without  difficulty  along  the 
white  winding  path  with  its  nutty  odour  of  the  heather  and 
gorse  until  we  came  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  then  sud- 
denly the  town  burst  upon  our  view,  with  its  promenades, 
theatres,  and  dancing  palaces  ablaze  with  electric  light,  which 
was  reflected  with  almost  equal  brilliance  in  the  smooth  water 
of  the  bay. 

We  were  five  miles  from  Blackwater,  but  listening  hard  we 
thought  we  could  hear,  through  the  boom  of  the  sea  on  the 
dark  cliffs  below  us,  the  thin  sounds  of  the  bands  that  were 
playing  in  the  open-air  pavilions,  and  looking  steadfastly 
we  thought  we  could  see,  in  the  black  patches  under  the  white 
light,  the  movement  of  the  thousands  of  persons  who  were 
promenading  along  "the  front." 

This  led  Martin  to  talk  of  my  father,  saying  as  we  walked 
back,  with  the  dark  outlines  of  the  sleeping  mountains  con- 
fronting us,  what  a  marvellous  man  he  had  been  to  trans- 
form in  twenty  years  the  little  fishing  and  trading  port  into  a 
great  resort  for  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pleasure-seekers. 

"But  is  he  any  better  or  happier  for  the  wealth  it  has 
brought  him,  and  for  the  connections  he  has  bought  with  it? 
Is  anybody  any  better?"  said  Martin. 

s 


274  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"I  know  one  who  isn't,"  I  answered. 

I  had  not  meant  to  say  that.  It  had  slipped  out  unawares, 
and  in  my  confusion  at  the  self -revelation  which  it  seemed  to 
make,  I  tripped  in  the  darkness  and  would  have  fallen  if 
Martin  had  not  caught  me  up. 

In  doing  this  he  had  to  put  his  arms  about  me  and  to  hold 
me  until  I  was  steady  on  my  feet,  and  having  done  so  he  took 
my  hand  and  drew  it  through  his  arm  and  in  this  way  we 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way  back. 

It  would  be  impossible  and  perhaps  foolish  to  say  what  that 
incident  meant  to  me.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  joy,  a  quivering  flood 
of  delight  which,  with  all  the  raptures  of  my  spiritual  love, 
had  never  come  to  me  before. 

Every  woman  who  loves  her  husband  must  know  what  it  is, 
but  to  me  it  was  a  great  revelation.  It  was  just  as  if  some  new 
passion  had  sprung  into  life  in  me  at  a  single  moment.  And 
it  had — the  mighty  passion  that  lies  at  the  root  of  our  being, 
the  overwhelming  instinct  of  sex  which,  taking  no  account  of 
religion  and  resolutions,  sweeps  everything  before  it  like  a 
flood. 

I  think  Martin  must  have  felt  it  too,  for  all  at  once  he  ceased 
to  speak,  and  I  was  trembling  so  much  with  this  new  feeling 
of  tenderness  that  I  could  not  utter  a  word.  So  I  heard  noth- 
ing as  we  walked  on  but  the  crackle  of  our  footsteps  on  the 
gravel  path  and  the  measured  boom  of  the  sea  which  we  were 
leaving  behind  us — nothing  but  that  and  the  quick  beating 
in  my  own  breast. 

When  we  came  to  the  garden  the  frowning  face  of  the  old 
house  was  in  front  of  us,  and  it  was  all  in  darkness,  save  for 
the  light  in  my  room  which  came  out  on  to  the  balcony. 
Everything  was  quiet.  The  air  was  breathless.  There  was 
not  a  rustle  in  the  trees. 

We  took  two  or  three  turns  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  m;- 
windows,  saying  nothing  but  feeling  terribly,  fearfully  happy. 
After  a  few  moments  (or  they  seemed  few)  a  cuckoo  clock  on 
my  desk  struck  eleven,  and  we  went  up  the  stone  stairway 
into  my  boudoir  and  parted  for  the  night. 

Even  then  we  did  not  speak,  but  Martin  took  my  hand  and 
lifted  my  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  the  quivering  delight  I  had 
been  feeling  ever  since  I  slipped  on  the  headland  rushed 
through  me  again. 

At  the  next  moment  I  was  in  my  room.  I  did  not  turn  on 
the  light.  I  undressed  in  the  darkness  and  when  my  maid 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  275 

came  I  was  in  bed.  She  wanted  to  tell  me  about  a  scene 
with  the  housekeeper  in  the  kitchen,  but  I  said : 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  to-night,  Price." 

I  did  not  know  what  was  happening  to  me.  I  only  knew, 
for  the  first  time  that  night,  that  above  everything  else  I  was 
a  woman,  and  that  my  renunciation,  if  it  was  ever  to  come  to 
pass,  would  be  a  still  more  tragic  thing  than  I  had  expected. 

My  grim  battle  had  begun. 

SIXTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

WHEN  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I  took  myself  severely  to  task. 
Was  this  how  I  was  fulfilling  the  promise  I  had  made  to 
Martin's  mother,  or  preparing  to  carry  out  the  counsel  of 
Father  Dan  ? 

"I  must  be  more  careful,"  I  told  myself.  "I  must  keep  a 
stronger  hold  of  myself." 

The  church  bells  began  to  ring,  and  I  determined  to  go 
to  mass.  I  wanted  to  go  alone  and  much  as  I  grudged  every 
minute  of  Martin's  company  which  I  lost,  I  was  almost  glad 
when,  on  going  into  the  boudoir  with  my  missal  in  my  hand, 
I  found  him  at  a  table  covered  with  papers  and  heard  him  say : 

"Helloa!  See  these  letters  and  telegrams?  Sunday  as 
it  is  I've  got  to  answer  them." 

Our  church  was  a  little  chapel-of-ease  on  the  edge  of  my 
husband's  estate,  opened,  after  centuries  of  neglect,  by  the 
bad  Lord  Raa,  in  his  regenerate  days,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
people  of  his  own  village.  It  was  very  sweet  to  see  their 
homely  faces  as  they  reverently  bowed  and  rose,  and  even  to 
hear  their  creachy  voices  when  they  joined  in  the  singing  of 
the  Gloria. 

Following  the  gospel  there  was  a  sermon  on  the  words 
"Lead  us  not  into  temptation  but  deliver  us  from  evil."  The 
preacher  was  a  young  curate,  the  brother  of  my  husband's 
coachman ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  could  know  very 
little  of  temptation  for  himself,  but  the  instruction  he  gave  us 
was  according  to'  the  doctrine  of  our  Church,  as  I  had  received 
it  from  the  Reverend  Mother  and  the  Cardinals  who  used  to 
hold  retreats  at  the  convent. 

"Beware  of  the  temptations  of  the  flesh,  my  children,"  said 
the  priest.  ' '  The  Evil  One  is  very  subtle,  and  not  only  in  our 
moments  of  pride  and  prosperity,  but  also  in  our  hours  of 
sorrow  and  affliction,  he  is  for  ever  waiting  and  watching  to 
betray  us  to  our  downfall  and  damnation." 


276  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

In  the  rustling  that  followed  the  sermon  a  poor  woman  who 
sat  next  to  me,  with  a  print  handkerchief  over  her  head, 
whispered  in  my  ear  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  not  brought 
her  husband,  for  he  had  given  way  to  drink,  poor  fellow,  since 
the  island  had  had  such  good  times  and  wages  had  been 
so  high. 

But  the  message  came  closer  home  to  me.  Remembering 
the  emotions  of  the  night  before,  I  prayed  fervently  to  be 
strengthened  against  all  temptation  and  preserved  from  all 
sin.  And  when  the  mass  was  resumed  I  recalled  some  of  the 
good  words  with  which  I  had  been  taught  to  assist  at  the  Holy 
Sacrifice — praying  at  the  Credo  that  as  I  had  become  a  child 
in  the  bosom  of  the  Church  I  might  live  and  die  in  it. 

When  the  service  was  over  I  felt  more  at  ease  and  I  emptied 
my  purse,  I  remember,  partly  into  the  plate  and  partly  to  the 
poor  people  at  the  church  door. 

It  was  in  this  spirit  that  I  returned  home  in  the  broad 
sunshine  of  noonday.  But  half  way  up  the  drive  I  met  Martin 
walking  briskly  down  to  meet  me.  He  was  bareheaded  and 
in  flannels;  and  I  could  not  help  it  if  he  looked  to  me  so 
good,  so  strong,  and  so  well  able  to  protect  a  woman  against 
every  danger,  that  the  instructions  I  had  received  in  church, 
and  the  resolutions  I  had  formed  there,  seemed  to  run  out  of 
my  heart  as  rapidly  as  the  dry  sand  of  the  sea-shore  runs 
through  one's  fingers. 

"Helloa!"  he  cried,  as  usual.  "The  way  I've  been  wasting 
this  wonderful  morning  over  letters  and  telegrams!  But  not 
another  minute  will  I  give  to  anything  under  the  stars  of  God 
but  you." 

If  there  was  any  woman  in  the  world  who  could  have 
resisted  that  greeting  I  was  not  she,  and  though  I  was  a  little 
confused  I  was  very  happy. 

As  we  walked  back  to  the  house  we  talked  of  my  father  and 
his  sudden  illness,  then  of  his  mother  and  my  glimpse  of  her, 
and  finally  of  indifferent  things,  such  as  the  weather,  which 
had  been  a  long  drought  and  might  end  in  a  deluge. 

By  a  sort  of  mutual  consent  we  never  once  spoke  of  the 
central  subject  of  our  thoughts — my  marriage  and  its  fatal 
consequences — but  I  noticed  that  Martin's  voice  was  soft  and 
caressing,  that  he  was  walking  close  to  my  side,  and  that 
as  often  as  I  looked  up  at  him  he  was  looking  down  at  me  and 
smiling. 

It  was  the  same  after  luncheon  when  we  went  out  into  the 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  277 

garden  and  sat  on  a  seat  in  the  shrubbery  almost  imme- 
diately facing  my  windows,  and  he  spread  a  chart  on  a  rustic 
table  and  pointing  to  a  red  line  on  it  said: 

"Look,  this  is  the  course  of  our  new  cruise,  please  God." 

He  talked  for  a  long  time,  about  his  captain  and  crew;  the 
scientific  experts  who  had  volunteered  to  accompany  him; 
his  aeronautic  outfit,  his  sledges  and  his  skis;  but  whatever 
ae  talked  about — if  it  was  only  his  dogs  and  the  food  he  had 
found  for  them — it  was  always  in  that  soft,  caressing  voice 
Trhich  made  me  feel  as  if  (though  he  never  said  one  word  of 
love)  he  were  making  love  to  me,  and  saying  the  sweetest 
things  a  man  could  say  to  a  woman. 

After  a  time  I  found  myself  answering  in  the  same  tones, 
and  even  when  speaking  on  the  most  matter-of-fact  subjects  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  saying  the  sweetest  things  a  woman  could  say 
to  a  man. 

We  sat  a  long  time  so,  and  every  moment  we  were  together 
seemed  to  make  our  relation  more  perilous,  until  at  length  the 
sweet  seductive  twilight  of  the  shortening  autumn  day  began 
to  frighten  me,  and  making  excuse  of  a  headache  I  said  I  must 
go  indoors. 

He  walked  with  me  up  the  stone-stairway  and  into  my 
boudoir,  until  we  got  to  the  very  door  of  my  room,  and  then 
suddenly  he  took  up  both  my  hands  and  kissed  them  passion- 
ately. 

I  felt  the  colour  rushing  to  my  cheeks  and  I  had  an  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  do  something  in  return.  But  conquering 
it  with  a  great  effort,  I  turned  quickly  into  my  bedroom,  shut 
the  door,  pulled  down  the  blinds  and  then  sat  and  covered  my 
face  and  asked  myself,  with  many  bitter  pangs,  if  it  could 
possibly  be  true  (as  I  had  been  taught  to  believe)  that  our 
nature  was  evil  and  our  senses  were  always  tempting  us  to  our 
destruction. 

Several  hours  passed  while  I  sat  in  the  darkness  with  this 
warfare  going  on  between  my  love  and  my  religion,  and  then 
Price  came  to  dregs  me  for  dinner,  and  she  was  full  of  cheerful 
gossip. 

"Men  are  such  children,"  she  said;  "they  can't  help  giving 
themselves  away,  can  they?" 

It  turned  out  that  after  I  had  left  the  lawn  she  had  had 
some  conversation  with  Martin,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was 
eager  to  tell  me  what  he  had  said  about  myself. 

"The  talk  began  about  your  health  and  altered  looks,  my 


278  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

lady.  '  Don 't  you  think  your  mistress  is  looking  ill  ? '  said  he. 
'A  little,'  I  said.  'But  her  body  is  not  so  ill  as  her  heart,  if 
you  ask  me,'  said  I." 

"You  nover  said  that,  Price?" 

"Well,  I  could  not  help  saying  it  if  I  thought  so,  could  I?" 

"And  Avhat  did  he  say?" 

"He  didn't  say  anything  then,  my  lady,  but  when  I  said, 
'  You  see,  sir,  my  lady  is  tied  to  a  husband  she  doesn  't  love, ' 
he  said,  '  How  can  she,  poor  thing  ? '  '  Worse  than  that, '  I  said, 
'her  husband  loves  another  woman.'  'The  fool!  Where  does 
he  keep  his  eyes?'  said  he.  'Worse  still,'  said  I,  'he  flaunts 
his  infidelities  in  her  very  face.'  'The  brute!'  he  said,  and 
his  face  looked  so  fierce  that  you  would  have  thought  he 
wanted  to  take  his  lordship  by  the  throat  and  choke  him. 
'Why  doesn't  she  leave  the  man?'  said  he.  'That's  what  1 
say,  sir,  but  I  think  it's  her  religion,'  I  said.  'Then  God  help 
her,  for  there 's  no  remedy  for  that, '  said  he.  And  then  seeing 
him  so  down  I  said,  'But  we  women  are  always  ruled  by  our 
hearts  in  the  long  run.'  'Do  you  think  so?'  said  he.  'I'm 
sure  of  it, '  said  I, '  only  we  must  have  somebody  to  help  us, '  I 
said.  'There's  her  father,'  said  he.  'A  father  is  of  no  use 
in  a  case  like  this, '  I  said,  '  especially  such  a  one  as  my  lady 's 
is,  according  to  all  reports.  No,'  said  I,  'it  must  be  somebody 
else — somebody  who  cares  enough  for  a  woman  to  risk  every- 
thing for  her,  and  just  take  her  and  make  her  do  what's  best 
for  herself  whether  she  likes  it  or  not.  Now  if  somebody 
like  that  were  to  come  to  my  lady,  and  get  her  out  of  her 
trouble,'  I  said.  .  .  .  'Somebody  will,'  said  he.  'Make 
your  mind  easy  about  that.  Somebody  will,'  he  said,  and  then 
he  went  on  walking  to  and  fro." 

Price  told  this  story  as  if  she  thought  she  was  bringing  me 
the  gladdest  of  glad  tidings;  but  the  idea  that  Martin  had 
come  back  into  my  life  to  master  me,  to  take  possession  of  me, 
to  claim  me  as  his  own  (just  as  he  did  when  I  was  a  child) 
and  thereby  compel  me  to  do  what  I  had  promised  his 
mother  and  Father  Dan  not  to  do — this  was  terrifying. 

But  there  w-as  a  secret  joy  in  it  too,  and  every  woman  will 
know  what  I  mean  if  I  say  that  my  heart  was  beating  high 
with  the  fierce  delight  of  belonging  to  somebody  when  I 
returned  to  the  boudoir  where  Martin  was  waiting  to  sit 
down  to  dinner. 

Then  came  a  great  surprise. 

Martin  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire-place,  and  I 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  279 

saw  in  a  moment  that  the  few  hours  which  had  intervened 
had  changed  him  as  much  as  they  had  changed  me. 

"Helloa!  Better,  aren't  we?"  he  cried,  but  he  was  now 
cold,  almost  distant,  and  even  his  hearty  voice  seemed  to  have 
sunk  to  a  kind  of  nervous  treble. 

I  could  not  at  first  understand  this,  but  after  a  while  I  began 
to  see  that  we  two  had  reached  the  point  beyond  which  it  was 
impossible  to  go  without  encountering  the  most  tremendous 
fact  of  our  lives — my  marriage  and  all  that  was  involved  by  it. 

During  dinner  we  spoke  very  little.  He  seemed  intention- 
ally not  to  look  at  me.  The  warm  glances  of  his  sea-blue  eyes, 
which  all  the  afternoon  had  been  making  the  colour  mount 
to  my  cheeks,  had  gone,  and  it  sent  a  cold  chill  to  my  heart  to 
look  across  the  table  at  his  clouded  face.  But  sometimes 
when  he  thought  my  own  face  was  down  I  was  conscious  that 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  with  a  questioning,  almost  an 
imploring  gaze.  His  nervousness  communicated  itself  to  me. 
It  was  almost  as  if  we  had  begun  to  be  afraid  of  each  other 
and  were  hovering  on  the  brink  of  fatal  revelations. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  table  cleared  and  the  servants 
gone,  I  could  bear  the  strain  no  longer,  so  making  excuse 
of  a  letter  I  had  to  write  to  the  Reverend  Mother  I  sat  down 
at  my  desk,  whereupon  Martin  lit  a  cigar  and  said  he  would 
stroll  over  the  headland. 

I  heard  his  footsteps  going  down  the  stone  stairway  from" 
the  balcony ;  I  heard  their  soft  thud  on  the  grass  of  the  lawn ; 
I  heard  their  sharper  crackle  on  the  gravel  of  the  white  path, 
and  then  they  mingled  with  the  surge  and  wash  of  the  flowing 
tide  and  died  away  in  the  distance. 

I  rose  from  the  desk,  and  going  over  to  the  balcony  door 
looked  out  into  the  darkness.  It  was  a  beautiful,  pathetic, 
heart  -breaking  night.  No  moon,  but  a  perfect  canopy  of  stars 
in  a  deep  blue  sky.  The  fragrance  of  unseen  flowers — sweet- 
briar  and  rose  as  well  as  ripening  fruit — came  up  from  the 
garden.  There  was  no  wind  either,  not  even  the  rustle  of  a 
leaf,  and  the  last  bird  of  evening  was  silent.  All  the  great 
orchestra  of  nature  was  still,  save  for  the  light  churning  of 
the  water  running  in  the  glen  and  the  deep  organ  song  of  the 
everlasting  sea. 

"What  can  I  do?"  I  asked  myself. 

Now  that  Martin  was  gone  I  had  begun  to  understand  him. 
His  silence  had  betrayed  his  heart  to  me  even  more  than  his 
speech  could  have  done.  Towering  above  him  like  a  frowning 


280  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

mountain  was  the  fact  that  I  was  a  married  woman  and  he 
was  trying  to  stand  erect  in  his  honour  as  a  man. 

"He  must  be  suffering  too,"  I  told  myself. 

That  was  a  new  thought  to  me  and  it  cut  me  to  the  quick. 

When  it  came  to  me  first  I  wanted  to  run  after  him  and 
throw  myself  into  his  arms,  and  then  I  wanted  to  run  away 
from  him  altogether. 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  on  the  brink  of  two  madnesses — the 
madness  of  breaking  my  marriage  vows  and  the  madness  of 
breaking  the  heart  of  the  man  who  loved  me. 

"Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  I  asked  myself  again. 

I  wanted  him  to  go ;  I  wanted  him  to  stay ;  I  did  not  know 
what  I  wanted.  At  length  I  remembered  that  in  ordinary 
course  he  would  be  going  in  two  days  more,  and  I  said  to 
myself : 

' '  Surely  I  can  hold  out  that  long. ' ' 

But  when  I  put  this  thought  to  my  breast,  thinking  it 
would  comfort  me,  I  found  that  it  burnt  like  hot  iron. 

Only  two  days,  and  then  he  would  be  gone,  lost  to  me 
perhaps  for  ever.  Did  my  renunciation  require  that?  It 
was  terrible! 

There  was  a  piano  in  the  room,  and  to  strengthen  and 
console  myself  in  my  trouble  I  sat  down  to  it  and  played 
and  sang.  I  sang  "Ave  Maris  Stella." 

I  was  singing  to  myself,  so  I  know  I  began  softly — so  softly 
that  my  voice  must  have  been  a  whisper  scarcely  audible 
outside  the  room — 

"Hail  thou  star  of  ocean, 
Portal  of  the  sky." 

But  my  heart  was  full  and  when  I  came  to  the  verses  which 
always  moved  me  most — 

"Virgin  of  all  virgins, 
To  thy  shelter  take  us" — 

my  voice,  without  my  knowing  it,  may  have  swelled  out  into 
the  breathless  night  until  it  reached  Martin,  where  he  walked 
on  the  dark  headland,  and  sounded  to  him  like  a  cry  that 
called  him  back. 

I  cannot  say.  I  only  know  that  when  with  a  thickening 
throat  I  had  come  to  an  end,  and  my  forehead  had  fallen 
on  to  the  key-board,  and  there  was  no  other  sound  in  the 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  281 

air  but  the  far-off  surging  of  the  sea,  I  heard  somebody 
calling  me  in  a  soft  and  tremulous  whisper, 

"Mary!" 

It  was  he.  I  went  out  to  the  balcony  and  there  he  was 
on  the  lawn  below.  The  light  of  the  room  was  on  him  and 
never  before  had  I  seen  his  strong  face  so  full  of  agitation. 

"Come  down,"  he  said.  "I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

I  could  not  resist  him.    He  was  my  master.    I  had  to  obey. 

When  I  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairway  he  took  my 
hand,  and  I  did  not  know  whether  it  was  his  hand  or  mine 
that  was  trembling.  He  led  me  across  the  lawn  to  the  seat 
in  the  shrubbery  that  almost  faced  my  windows.  In  the 
soft  and  soundless  night  I  could  hear  his  footsteps  on  the 
turf  and  the  rustle  of  my  dress  over  the  grass. 

We  sat,  and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  Then  with 
a  passionate  rn-h  of  words  he  said: 

"Mary,  I  hadn't  meant  to  say  what  I'm  going  to  say  now, 
but  I  can't  do  anything  else.  You  are  in  trouble,  and  I  can't 
stand  by  and  see  you  so  ill-used.  I  can't  and  I  won't!" 

I  tried  to  answer  him,  but  my  throat  was  fluttering  and  I 
could  not  speak. 

"It's  only  a  few  days  before  I  ought  to  sail,  but  they  may 
be  enough  in  which  to  do  something,  and  if  they're  not  I'll 
postpone  the  expedition  or  put  it  off,  or  send  somebody  in 
my  place,  for  go  away  I  cannot  and  leave  you  like  this." 

I  tried  to  say  that  he  should  not  do  that  whatever  happened 
to  me,  but  still  I  could  not  speak. 

"Mary,  I  want  to  help  you.  But  I  can  only  do  so  if  you 
give  me  the  right  to  do  it.  Nobody  must  tell  me  I  'm  a  meddler, 
butting  in  where  I  have  no  business.  There  are  people 
enough  about  you  who  would  be  only  too  ready  to  do  that — 
people  related  to  you  by  blood  and  by  law." 

I  knew  what  he  was  coming  to,  for  his  voice  was  quivering 
in  my  ears  like  the  string  of  a  bow. 

"There  is  only  one  sort  of  right,  Mary,  that  is  above  the 
right  of  blood,  and  you  know  what  that  is." 

My  eyes  were  growing  so  dim  that  I  could  hardly  see  the 
face  which  was  so  close  to  mine. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I  have  always  cared  for  you.  Surely 
you  know  that.  By  the  saints  of  God  I  swear  there  has  never 
been  any  other  girl  for  me,  and  now  there  never  will  be. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  before,  and  I  wanted 


282  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

to  do  so  when  I  met  you  in  Rome.  But  it  didn't  seem  fair, 
and  I  couldn  't  bring  myself  to  do  it. ' ' 

His  passionate  voice  was  breaking;  I  thought  my  heart 
was  breaking  also. 

"All  I  could  do  I  did,  but  it  came  to  nothing;  and  now  you 
are  here  and  you  are  unhappy,  and  though  it  is  so  late  I 
want  to  help  you,  to  rescue  you,  to  drag  you  out  of  this 
horrible  situation  before  I  go  away.  Let  me  do  it.  Give 
me  the  right  of  one  you  care  enough  for  to  allow  him  to 
speak  on  your  behalf." 

I  knew  what  that  meant.  I  knew  that  I  was  tottering  on 
the  very  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  to  save  myself  I  tried  to 
think  of  Father  Dan,  of  Martin's  mother,  of  my  own  mother, 
and  since  I  could  not  speak  I  struggled  to  pray. 

' '  Don 't  say  you  can 't.  If  you  do  I  shall  go  away  a  sorrow- 
ful man.  I  shall  go  at  once  too — to-night  or  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  latest,  for  my  heart  bleeds  to  look  at  you  and  I  can't 
stay  here  any  longer  to  see  you  suffer.  It  is  not  torture  to 
me— it's  hell!" 

And  then  the  irrepressible,  overwhelming,  inevitable  moment 
came.  Martin  laid  hold  of  my  right  hand  and  said  in  his 
tremulous  voice: 

"Mary     .     .     .    Mary     ...     I     ...     I  love  you!" 

I  could  hear  no  more.  I  could  not  think  or  pray  or  resist 
any  longer.  The  bitter  struggle  was  at  an  end.  Before  I 
knew  what  I  was  doing  I  was  dropping  my  head  on  to  his 
breast  and  he  with  a  cry  of  joy  was  gathering  me  in  his  arms. 

I  was  his.  He  had  taken  his  own.  Nothing  counted  in 
the  presence  of  our  love.  To  be  only  we  two  together — that 
was  everything.  The  world  and  the  world's  laws,  the  Church 
and  the  Canons  of  the  Church  were  blotted  out,  forgotten, 
lost. 

For  some  moments  I  hardly  breathed.  I  was  only  conscious 
that  over  my  head  Martin  was  saying  something  that  seemed 
to  come  to  me  with  all  the  deep  and  wonderful  whispers  of  his 
heart. 

"Then  it's  true!  It's  true  that  you  love  me!  Yes,  it's 
true !  It's  true !  No  one  shall  hurt  you  again.  Never  again ! 
No,  by  the  Lord  God!" 

And  then  suddenly — as  suddenly  as  the  moment  of  in- 
toxication had  come  to  me — I  awoke  from  my  delirium.  Some 
little  thing  awakened  me.  I  hardly  know  what  it  was.  Per- 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  283 

haps  it  was  only  the  striking  of  the  cuckoo  clock  in  my 
room. 

"What  are  we  doing?"  I  said. 

Everything  had  rolled  back  on  me — my  marriage,  Father 
Dan's  warning,  my  promise  to  Martin's  mother. 

"Where  are  we?"  I  said. 

"Hush!  Don't  speak,"  said  Martin.  "Let  us  think  of 
nothing  to-night — nothing  except  our  love." 

"Don't  say  that,"  I  answered.  "We  are  not  free  to  love 
each  other,"  and  then,  trying  to  liberate  myself  from  his 
encircling  arms  I  cried: 

' '  God  help  me !    God  forgive  me ! " 

"Wait!"  said  Martin,  holding  me  a  moment  longer.  "I 
know  what  you  feel,  and  I'm  not  the  man  to  want  a  girl 
to  wrong  her  conscience.  But  there's  one  question  I  must 
ask  you.  If  you  ivere  free,  could  you  love  me  then?" 

"Don't  ask  me  that.    I  must  not  answer  it." 

* '  You  must  and  shall, ' '  said  Martin.    ' '  Could  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"That's  enough  for  me — enough  for  to-night  anyway. 
Have  no  fear.  All  shall  be  well.  Go  to  your  room  now." 

He  raised  me  to  my  feet  and  led  me  back  to  the  foot  of  the 
balcony,  and  there  he  kissed  my  hand  and  let  me  go. 

"Good  night!"  he  said  softly. 

"Good  night!"  I  answered. 

"God  bless  you,  my  pure  sweet  girl!" 

At  the  next  moment  I  was  in  my  room,  lying  face  down 
on  my  bed — seeing  no  hope  on  any  side,  and  sobbing  my 
heart  out  for  what  might  have  been  but  for  the  hard  law  of 
my  religion  and  the  cruel  tangle  of  my  fate. 

SIXTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

NEXT  morning,  Monday  morning,  while  I  was  breakfasting 
in  my  bedroom,  Price  came  with  a  message  from  Martin  to 
say  that  he  was  going  into  the  glen  and  wished  to  know 
if  I  would  go  with  him. 

I  knew  perfectly  what  that  meant.  He  wished  to  tell  me 
what  steps  he  intended  to  take  towards  my  divorce,  and  my 
heart  trembled  with  the  thought  of  the  answer  I  had  to  give 
him — that  divorce  for  me,  under  any  circumstances,  was  quite 
impossible. 

Sorry  as  I  was  for  myself  I  was  still  more  sorry  for  Martin. 


284  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  felt  like  a  judge  who  had  to  pronounce  sentence  upon  him — 
dooming  his  dearest  hopes  to  painful  and  instant  death. 

I  could  hear  him  on  the  lawn  with  Tommy  the  Mate, 
laughing  like  a  boy  let  loose  from  school,  and  when  I  went 
down  to  him  he  greeted  me  with  a  cry  of  joy  that  was  almost 
heart-breaking. 

Our  way  to  the  glen  was  through  a  field  of  grass,  where 
the  dew  was  thick,  and,  my  boots  being  thin,  Martin  in  his 
high  spirits  wished  to  carry  me  across,  and  it  was  only  with 
an  effort  that  I  prevented  him  from  doing  so. 

The  glen  itself  when  we  reached  it  (it  was  called  Glen 
Raa)  was  almost  cruelly  beautiful  that  day,  and  remembering 
what  I  had  to  do  in  it  I  thought  I  should  never  be  able  to 
get  it  out  of  my  sight — with  its  slumberous  gloom  like  that 
of  a  vast  cathedral,  its  thick  arch  of  overhanging  boughs 
through  which  the  morning  sunlight  was  streaming  slantwards 
like  the  light  through  the  windows  of  a  clerestory,  its  running 
water  below,  its  rustling  leaves  above,  and  the  chirping  of  its 
birds  on  every  side,  making  a  sound  that  was  like  the  chanting 
of  a  choir  in  some  far-off  apse  and  the  rumbling  of  their 
voices  in  the  roof. 

Two  or  three  times,  as  we  walked  down  the  glen  towards 
a  port  (Port  Raa)  which  lay  at  the  seaward  end  of  it,  Martin 
rallied  me  on  the  settled  gravity  of  my  face  and  then  I  had  to 
smile,  though  how  I  did  so  I  do  not  know,  for  every  other 
minute  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth,  and  never  more  so  than 
when,  to  make  me  laugh,  he  rattled  away  in  the  language  of  his 
boyhood,  saying: 

" Isn't  this  stunning?    Splendiferous,  eh?" 

When  we  came  out  at  the  mouth  of  the  port,  where  a  line 
of  little  stunted  oaks  leaned  landward  as  with  the  memory 
of  many  a  winter's  storm,  Martin  said: 

"Let  us  sit  down  here." 

We  sat  on  the  sloping  bank,  with  the  insects  ticking  in  the 
grass,  the  bees  humming  in  the  air,  the  sea  fowl  screaming 
in  the  sky,  the  broad  sea  in  front,  and  the  little  bay  below, 
where  the  tide,  which  was  going  out,  had  left  behind  it  a 
sharp  reef  of  black  rocks  covered  with  sea-weed. 

A  pleasure-steamer  passed  at  that  moment  with  its  flags 
flying,  its  awnings  spread,  its  decks  crowded  with  excursionists, 
and  a  brass  band  playing  one  of  Sousa's  marches,  and  as  soon 
as  it  had  gone,  Martin  said: 

"I've  been  thinking  about  our  affair,  Mary,  how  to  go  to 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  285 

work  and  all  that,  and  of  course  the  first  thing  we've  got  to 
.do  is  to  get  a  divorce." 

I  made  no  answer,  and  I  tried  not  to  look  at  him  by  fixing 
my  eyes  upon  the  sea. 

"You  have  evidence  enough,  you  know,  and  if  you  haven't 
there's  Price — she  has  plenty.  So,  since  you've  given  me 
the  right  to  speak  for  you,  dear,  I'm  going  to  speak  to  your 
father  first." 

I  must  have  made  some  half-articulate  response,  for  not 
understanding  me  he  said: 

' '  Oh,  I  know  he  '11  be  a  hard  nut  to  crack.  He  won 't  want 
to  hear  what  I  Ve  got  to  say,  but  he  has  got  to  hear  it.  And 
after  all  you're  his  daughter,  and  if  he  has  any  bowels  of 
compassion  .  .  ." 

Again  I  must  have  made  some  effort  to  speak,  for  he  said : 

"Yes,  he's  ill,  but  he  has  only  to  set  Curphy  to  work  and 
the  lawyer  will  do  the  rest. ' ' 

I  could  not  allow  him  to  go  any  further,  so  I  blurted  out 
somehow  that  I  had  seen  my  father  already. 

"On  this  subject?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

I  told  him  as  well  as  I  could  what  my  father  had  said, 
being  ashamed  to  repeat  it. 

"That  was  only  bluff,  though,"  said  Martin.  "The  real 
truth  is  that  you  would  cease  to  be  Lady  Raa  and  that  would 
be  a  blow  to  his  pride.  Then  there  would  no  longer  be  any 
possibility  of  establishing  a  family  and  that  would  disturb 
his  plans.  No  matter!  We  can  set  Curphy  to  work  our- 
selves. ' ' 

"But  I  have  seen  Mr.  Curphy  also,"  I  said. 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

I  told  him  what  the  lawyer  had  said  and  he  was  aghast. 

"Good  heavens!  What  an  iniquity!  In  England  too! 
But  never  mind!  There  are  other  countries  where  this  relic 
of  the  barbaric  ages  doesn't  exist.  We'll  go  there.  We 
must  get  you  a  divorce  somehow." 

My  time  had  come.    I  could  keep  back  the  truth  no  longer. 

"But  Martin,"  I  said,  "divorce  is  impossible  for  me — quite 
impossible. ' ' 

And  then  I  told  him  that  I  had  been  to  see  the  Bishop 
also,  and  he  had  said  what  I  had  known  before,  though  in  the 
pain  of  my  temptation  I  had  forgotten  it,  that  the  Catholic 


286  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

Church  did  not  countenance  divorce  under  any  circumstances, 
because  God  made  marriages  and  therefore  no  man  could 
dissolve  them. 

Martin  listened  intently,  and  in  his  eagerness  to  catch  every 
word  he  raised  himself  to  a  kneeling  position  by  my  side,  so 
that  he  was  looking  into  my  face. 

"But  Mary,  my  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  "you  don't  mean  to 
say  you  will  allow  such  considerations  to  influence  you?" 

"I  am  a  Catholic — what  else  can  I  do?"  I  said. 

"But  think — my  dear,  dear  girl,  think  how  unreasonable, 
how  untrue,  how  preposterous  it  all  is  in  a  case  like  yours? 
God  made  your  marriage?  Yours?  God  married  you  to 
that  notorious  profligate  ?  Can  you  believe  it  ?  " 

His  eyes  were  flaming.    I  dared  not  look  at  them. 

"Then  think  again.  They  say  there's  no  divorce  in  the 
Catholic  Church,  do  they?  But  what  are  they  talking  about? 
Morally  speaking  you  are  a  divorced  woman  already.  Any- 
body with  an  ounce  of  brains  can  see  that.  "When  you  were 
married  to  this  man  he  made  a  contract  with  you,  and  he  has 
broken  the  terms  of  it,  hasn  't  he  ?  Then  where 's  the  contract 
now?  It  doesn't  any  longer  exist.  Your  husband  has  de- 
stroyed it." 

"But  isn't  marriage  different?"  I  asked. 

And  then  I  tried  to  tell  him  what  the  Bishop  had  said  of  the 
contract  of  marriage  being  unlike  any  other  contract  because 
Gcd  Himself  had  become  a  party  to  it. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "God  become  a  party  to  a  marriage 
like  yours?  My  dear  girl,  only  think!  Think  of  what  your 
marriage  has  been — the  pride  and  vanity  and  self-seeking  that 
conceived  it,  the  compulsion  that  was  put  upon  you  to  carry 
it  through,  and  then  the  shame  and  the  suffering  and  the 
wickedness  and  the  sin  of  it !  Was  God  a  party  to  the  making 
of  a  marriage  like  that?" 

In  his  agitation  he  rose,  walked  two  or  three  paces  in  front 
and  came  back  to  me. 

"Then  think  what  it  means  if  your  marriage  may  not  be 
dissolved.  It  means  that  you  must  go  on  living  with  this 
man  whose  life  is  so  degrading.  Year  in,  year  out,  as-  long 
as  your  life  lasts  you  must  let  him  humiliate  and  corrupt  you 
with  his  company,  his  companions  and  his  example,  until  you 
are  dragged  down,  down,  down  to  the  filth  he  lives  in  himself, 
and  your  very  soul  is  contaminated.  Is  that  what  the  Church 
asks  of  you?" 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  287 

I  answered  no,  and  tried  to  tell  him  what  the  Bishop  had 
told  me  about  separation,  but  he  interrupted  me  with  a  shout. 

"Separation?  Did  he  say  that?  If  the  Church  has  no 
right  to  divorce  you  what  right  has  it  to  separate  you!  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  see  what  it  will  say — hope  of  reconciliation.  But  if  you 
were  separated  from  your  husband  would  you  ever  go  back  to 
him  ?  Never  in  this  world.  Then  what  would  your  separation 
be  ?  Only  divorce  under  another  name. ' ' 

I  was  utterly  shaken.  Perhaps  I  wanted  to  believe  what 
Martin  was  saying ;  perhaps  I  did  not  know  enough  to  answer 
him,  but  I  could  not  help  it  if  I  thought  Martin's  clear  mind 
was  making  dust  and  ashes  of  everything  that  Father  Dan 
and  the  Bishop  had  said  to  me. 

"Then  what  can  I  do?"  I  asked. 

I  thought  his  face  quivered  at  that  question.  He  got  up 
again,  and  stood  before  me  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 
Then  he  said,  with  an  obvious  effort — 

"If  your  Church  will  not  allow  you  to  divorce  your  hus- 
band, and  if  you  and  I  cannot  marry  without  that,  then  ..." 

"Yes?" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  propose  it  ...  God  knows  I  didn't, 
but  when  a  woman  .  .  .  when  a  woman  has  been  forced 
into  a  loveless  marriage,  and  it  is  crushing  the  very  soul  out 
of  her,  and  the  iron  law  of  her  Church  will  not  permit  her  to 
escape  from  it,  what  crime  does  she  commit  if  she  .  .  ." 

' '  Well  ? "  I  asked,  though  I  saw  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  breathing  hard  and  fast,  "you  must 
come  to  me." 

I  made  a  sudden  cry,  though  I  tried  not  to. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  not  what  we  could  wish. 
But  we'll  be  open  about  it.  We'll  face  it  out.  Why  shouldn't 
we?  I  shall  anyway.  And  if  your  father  and  the  Bishop 
say  anything  to  me  111  tell  them  what  I  think  of  the  abom- 
inable marriage  they  forced  you  into.  As  for  you,  dear,  I 
know  you'll  have  to  bear  something.  All  the  conventional 
canting  hypocrisies!  Every  man  who  has  bought  his  wife, 
and  every  woman  who  has  sold  herself  into  concubinage — 
there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  them  all  the  world 
over,  and  they'll  try  .  .  .  perhaps  they'll  try  .  .  . 
but  let  them  try.  If  they  want  to  trample  the  life  out  of  you 
they  11  have  to  walk  over  me  first — yes,  by  God  they  will!" 

"But  Martin    .    .    ." 

"Well?" 


288  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  ...  I  am  .  .  .  to  .  .  , 
to  live  with  you  without  marriage  ? ' ' 

"It's  the  only  thing  possible,  isn't  it!"  he  said.  And 
then  he  tried  to  show  me  that  love  was  everything,  and  if 
people  loved  each  other  nothing  else  mattered — religious  cere- 
monies were  nothing,  the  morality  of  society  was  nothing,  the 
world  and  its  back-biting  was  nothing. 

The  great  moment  had  come  for  me  at  last,  and  though  I 
felt  torn  between  love  and  pity  I  had  to  face  it. 

"Martin,  I     ...     I  can't  do  it,"  I  said. 

He  looked  steadfastly  into  my  face  for  a  moment,  but  I 
dare  not  look  back,  for  I  knew  he  was  suffering. 

"You  think  it  would  be  wrong?" 

"Yes." 

"A  sin?" 

I  tried  to  say  "Yes"  again,  but  my  reply  died  in  my  throat. 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence  and  then,  in  a  faltering 
voice  that  nearly  broke  me  down,  he  said: 

"In  that  case  there  is  nothing  more  to  say.  .  .  .  There 
isn't,  is  there?" 

I  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  my  voice  would  not  come. 

"I  thought  ...  as  there  was  no  other  way  of  escape 
from  this  terrible  marriage  .  .  .  but  if  you  think  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  and  then  coming  closer  he  said : 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  this  means  for  you,  Mary — 
that  after  all  the  degradation  you  have  gone  through  you  are 
shutting  the  door  to  a  worthier,  purer  life,  and  that  .  .  ." 

I  could  bear  no  more.  My  heart  was  yearning  for  him, 
yet  I  was  compelled  to  speak. 

"But  would  it  be  a  purer  life,  Martin,  if  it  began  in  sin? 
No,  no,  it  wouldn't,  it  couldn't.  Oh,  you  can't  think  how 
hard  it  is  to  deny  myself  the  happiness  you  offer  me.  It's 
harder  than  all  the  miseries  my  husband  has  inflicted  upon 
me.  But  it  wouldn't  be  happiness,  because  our  sin  would 
stand  between  us.  That  would  always  be  there,  Martin — 
every  day,  every  night,  as  long  as  ever  we  lived.  .  .  .  We 
should  never  know  one  really  happy  hour.  I  'm  sure  we  should 
not.  I  should  be  unhappy  myself  and  I  should  make  you 
unhappy.  Oh,  I  daren't!  I  daren't!  Don't  ask  me,  I 
beg — I  beseech  you." 

I  burst  into  tears  after  this,  and  there  was  a  long  silence 
between  us.  Then  Martin  touched  my  arm  and  said  with  a 
gentleness  that  nearly  broke  my  heart: 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  289 

" Don't  cry,  Mary.  I  give  in.  I  find  I  have  no  will  but 
yours,  dear.  If  you  can  bear  the  present  condition  of  things, 
/  ought  to  be  able  to.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  house." 

He  raised  me  to  my  feet  and  we  turned  our  faces  homeward. 

All  the  brightness  of  the  day  had  gone  for  both  of  us  by  this 
time.  The  tide  was  now  far  out.  Its  moaning  was  only  a 
distant  murmur.  The  shore  was  a  stretch  of  jagged  black 
rocks  covered  with  sea- weed. 

SIXTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

NOTWITHSTANDING  Martin 's  tenderness  I  had  a  vague  fear  that 
he  had  only  pretended  to  submit  to  my  will,  and  before  the 
day  was  over  I  had  proof  of  it. 

During  dinner  we  spoke  very  little,  and  after  it  was  over  we 
went  out  to  the  balcony  to  sit  on  a  big  oak  seat  which  stood 
there. 

It  was  another  soft  and  soundless  night,  without  stars,  very 
dark,  and  with  an  empty  echoing  air,  which  seemed  to  say  that 
thunder  was  not  far  off,  for  the  churning  of  the  nightjar 
vibrated  from  the  glen,  and  the  distant  roar  of  the  tide,  now 
rising,  was  like  the  rumble  of  drums  at  a  soldier's  funeral. 

Just  as  we  sat  down  the  pleasure-steamer  we  had  seen  in  the 
morning  re-crossed  our  breadth  of  sea  on  its  way  back  to  Black- 
water;  and  lit  up  on  deck  and  in  all  its  port-holes,  it  looked 
like  a  floating  cafe  chantant  full  of  happy  people,  for  they 
were  singing  in  chorus  a  rugged  song  which  Martin  and  I  had 
known  all  our  lives — 

Ramsey  town,  Ramsey  town,  smiling  by  the  sea, 
Here's  a  health  to  my  true  love,  wheresoe'er  she  be. 

When  the  steamer  had  passed  into  darkness,  Martin  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  again,  Mary,  but  before  I  go 
there's  something  I  want  to  know.  ...  If  you  cannot 
divorce  your  husband,  and  if  ...  if  you  cannot  come  to 
me  what  .  ...  what  is  left  to  us?" 

I  tried  to  tell  him  there  was  only  one  thing  left  to  us,  and 
(as  much  for  myself  as  for  him)  I  did  my  best  to  picture  the 
spiritual  heights  and  beauties  of  renunciation. 

"  Does  that  mean  that  we  are  to  .  .  .  to  part  ?"  he  said. 
"You  going  your  way  and  I  going  mine  .  .  .  never  to 
meet  again?" 

That  cut  me  to  the  quick,  so  I  said — it  was  all  I  could  trust 
myself  to  say — that  the  utmost  that  was  expected  of  us  was 

T 


290  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

that  we  should  govern  our  affections — control  and  conquer 
them. 

"Do  you  mean  that  we  are  to  stamp  them  out  altogether?" 
he  said. 

That  cut  me  to  the  quick  too,  and  I  felt  like  a  torn  bird 
that  is  struggling  in  the  lime,  but  I  contrived  to  say  that  if  our 
love  was  guilty  love  it  was  our  duty  to  destroy  it. 

"Is  that  possible?"  he  said. 

"We  must  ask  God  to  help  us,"  I  answered,  and  then,  while 
his  head  was  down  and  I  was  looking  out  into  the  darkneSvS, 
I  tried  to  say  that  though  he  was  suffering  now  he  would  soon 
get  over  this  disappointment. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  get  over  it?"  he  asked. 

This  confused  me  terribly,  for  in  spite  of  all  I  was  saying  I 
knew  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  in  the  sense  he  intended 
I  did  not  and  could  not  wish  it. 

"We  have  known  and  cared  for  each  other  all  our  lives, 
Mary — isn't  that  so?  It  seems  as  if  there  never  was  a  time 
when  we  didn  't  know  and  care  for  each  other.  Are  we  to  pray 
to  God,  as  you  say,  that  a  time  may  come  when  we  shall  feel 
as  if  we  had  never  known  and  cared  for  each  other  at  all?" 

My  throat  was  fluttering — I  could  not  answer  him. 

"7  can't,"  he  said.  "I  never  shall — never  as  long  as  I  live. 
No  prayers  will  ever  help  me  to  forget  you. ' ' 

I  could  not  speak.  I  dared  not  look  at  him.  After  a 
moment  he  said  in  a  thicker  voice : 

"And  you  .  .  .  will  you  be  able  to  forget  me?  By 
praying  to  God  will  you  be  able  to  wipe  me  out  of  your  mind  ? " 

I  felt  as  if  something  were  strangling  me. 

"A  woman  lives  in  her  heart,  doesn't  she?"  he  said.  "Love 
is  everything  to  her  .  .  .  everything  except  her  religion. 
Will  it  be  possible — this  renunciation  .  .  .  will  it  be  pos- 
sible for  you  either?" 

I  felt  as  if  all  the  blood  in  my  body  were  running  away 
from  me. 

"It  will  not.  You  know  it  will  not.  You  will  never  be 
able  to  renounce  your  love.  Neither  of  us  will  be  able  to  re- 
nounce it.  It  isn't  possible.  It  isn't  human.  .  .  .  Well, 
what  then?  If  we  continue  to  love  each  other— you  here  and 
I  down  there — we  shall  be  just  as  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Church,  shan  't  WP  *  " 

I  did  not  answer  him,  and  after  a  moment  he  came  closer 
to  me  on  the  seat  and  said  almost  in  a  whisper : 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  291 

"Then  think  again,  Mary.  Only  give  one  glance  to  the 
horrible  life  that  is  before  you  when  I  am  gone.  You  have 
been  married  a  year  .  .  .  only  a  year  .  .  .  and  you 
have  suffered  terribly.  But  there  is  worse  to  come.  Your 
husband 's  coarse  infidelity  has  been  shocking,  but  there  will  be 
something  more  shocking  than  his  infidelity — his  affection. 
Have  you  never  thought  of  thatf" 

I  started  and  shuddered,  feeling  as  if  somebody  must  have 
told  him  the  most  intimate  secret  of  my  life.  Coming  still 
closer  he  said: 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  I'm  bound  to  speak  plainly  now.  If 
I  didn't  I  should  never  forgive  myself  in  the  future  .  .  . 
Listen!  Your  husband  will  get  over  his  fancy  for  this 
.  .  .  this  woman.  He'll  throw  her  off,  as  he  has  thrown  off 
women  of  the  same  kind  before.  What  will  happen  then? 
He'll  remember  that  you  belong  to  him  .  .  .  that  he  has 
rights  in  you  .  .  .  that  you  are  his  wife  and  he  is  your 
husband  .  .  .  that  the  infernal  law  which  denies  you  the 
position  of  an  equal  human  being  gives  him  a  right — a  legal 
right — to  compel  your  obedience.  Have  you  never  thought  of 
thatf" 

For  one  moment  we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes;  then  he 
took  hold  of  my  hand  and,  speaking  very  rapidly,  said : 

' '  That 's  the  life  that  is  before  you  when  I  am  gone — to  live 
with  this  man  whom  you  loathe  .  .  .  year  after  year,  as 
long  as  life  lasts  .  .  .  occupying  the  same  house,  the  same 
room,  the  same  .  .  ." 

I  uttered  an  involuntary  cry  and  he  stopped. 

"Martin,"  I  said,  "there  is  something  you  don't  know." 

And  then,  I  told  him — it  was  forced  out  of  me — my  modesty 
went  down  in  the  fierce  battle  with  a  higher  pain,  and  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  was  my  pride  or  my  shame  or  my  love  that 
compelled  me  to  tell  him,  but  I  did  tell  him — God  knows  how 
— that  I  could  not  run  the  risk  he  referred  to  because  I  was 
not  in  that  sense  my  husband 's  wife  and  never  had  been. 

The  light  was  behind  me,  and  my  face  was  in  the  darkness ; 
but  still  I  covered  it  with  my  hands  while  I  stammered  out  the 
story  of  my  marriage  day  and  the  day  after,  and  of  the  com- 
pact I  had  entered  into  with  my  husband  that  only  when  and  if 
I  came  to  love  him  should  he  claim  my  submission  as  a  wife. 

"While  I  was  speaking  I  knew  that  Martin 's  eyes  were  fixed 
on  me,  for  I  could  feel  his  breath  on  the  back  of  my  hands,  but 
before  I  had  finished  he  leapt  up  and  cried  excitedly : 


292  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"And  that  compact  has  been  kept?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  it's  all  right!  Don't  be  afraid.  You  shall  be  free. 
Come  in  and  let  me  tell  you  how!  Come  in,  come  in!" 

He  took  me  back  into  the  boudoir.  I  had  no  power  to  resist 
him.  His  face  was  as  pale  as  death,  but  his  eyes  were  shining. 
He  made  me  sit  down  and  then  sat  on  the  table  in  front  of  me. 

"Listen!"  he  said.  "When  I  bought  my  ship  from  the 
Lieutenant  we  signed  a  deed,  a  contract,  as  a  witness  before 
all  men  that  he  would  give  me  his  ship  and  I  would  give  him 
some  money.  But  if  after  all  he  hadn  't  given  me  his  ship  what 
would  our  deed  have  been  ?  Only  so  much  waste  paper. ' ' 

It  was  the  same  with  my  marriage.  If  it  had  been  an  honest 
contract,  the  marriage  service  would  have  been  a  witness  before 
God  that  we  meant  to  live  together  as  man  and  wife.  But 
I  never  had,  therefore  what  was  the  marriage  service?  Only 
an  empty  ceremony! 

"That's  the  plain  sense  of  the  matter,  isn't  it?"  he  cried. 
"I  defy  any  priest  in  the  world  to  prove  the  contrary." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  don't  you  see  what  it  comes  to?  You  are  free — 
morally  free  at  all  events.  You  can  come  to  me.  You  must, 
too.  I  daren't  leave  you  in  this  house  any  longer.  I  shall 
take  you  to  London  and  fix  you  up  there,  and  then,  when  I 
come  back  from  the  Antarctic  .  .  ." 

He  was  glowing  with  joy,  but  a  cold  hand  suddenly  seized 
me,  for  I  had  remembered  all  the  terrors  of  excommunication 
as  Father  Dan  had  described  them. 

' '  But  Martin, ' '  I  said,  ' '  would  the  Church  accept  that  ? ' ' 

"What  matter  whether  it  would  or  wouldn't?  Our  con- 
sciences would  be  clear.  There  would  be  no  sin,  and  what 
you  were  saying  this  morning  would  not  apply." 

' '  But  if  I  left  my  husband  I  couldn  't  marry  you,  could  I  ? '  * 

"Perhaps  not." 

"Then  the  Church  would  say  that  I  was  a  sinful  woman 
living  a  sinful  life,  wouldn  't  it  ?  " 

"But  you  wouldn't  be." 

"All  the  same  the  Church  would  say  so,  and  if  it  did  I 
should  be  cut  out  of  communion,  and  if  I  were  eut  out  of  com- 
munion I  should  be  cast  out  of  the  Church,  and  if  I  were  cast 
out  of  the  Church  .  .  .  what  would  become  of  me  then  ? ' ' 

"But,  my  dear,  dear  girl,"  said  Martin,  "don't  you  see  that 
this  is  not  the  same  thing  at  all  ?  It  is  only  a  case  of  a  cere- 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  293 

mony.  And  why  should  a  mere  ceremony — even  if  we  cannot 
do  away  with  it —  darken  a  woman's  life  for  ever?" 

My  heart  was  yearning  for  love,  but  my  soul  was  crying  out 
for  salvation ;  and  not  being  able  to  answer  him  for  myself,  I 
told  him  what  Father  Dan  had  said  I  was  to  say. 

"Father  Dan  is  a  saint  and  I  love  him,"  he  said.  "But 
what  can  he  know — what  can  any  priest  know  of  a  situation 
like  this  ?  The  law  of  man  has  tied  you  to  this  brute,  but  the 
law  of  God  has  given  you  to  me.  Why  should  a  marriage 
service  stand  between  us?" 

"But  it  does,"  I  said.  "And  we  can't  alter  it.  No,  no,  I 
dare  not  break  the  law  of  the  Church.  I  am  a  weak,  wretched 
girl,  but  I  cannot  give  up  my  religion." 

After  that  Martin  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said: 

' '  You  mean  that,  Mary  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

And  then  my  heart  accused  me  so  terribly  of  the  crime  of 
resisting  him  that  I  took  his  hand  and  held  his  fingers  in  a 
tight  lock  while  I  told  him — what  I  had  never  meant  to  tell — 
how  long  and  how  deeply  I  had  loved  him,  but  nevertheless  I 
dared  not  face  the  thought  of  living  and  dying  without  the 
consolations  of  the  Church. 

"I  dare  not!  I  dare  not!"  I  said.  "I  should  be  a 
broken-hearted  woman  if  I  did,  and  you  don't  want  that, 
do  you?" 

He  listened  in  silence,  though  the  irregular  lines  in  his  face 
showed  the  disordered  state  of  his  soul,  and  when  I  had  fin- 
ished a  wild  look  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  said: 

"I  am  disappointed  in  you,  Mary.  I  thought  you  were 
brave  and  fearless,  and  that  when  I  showed  you  a  way  out  of 
your  miserable  entanglement  you  would  take  it  in  spite  of 
everything. ' ' 

His  voice  was  growing  thick  again.  I  could  scarcely  bear 
to  listen  to  it. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  wanted  to  take  up  the  position  I  pro- 
posed to  you  ?  Not  I.  No  decent  man  ever  does.  But  I  love 
you  so  dearly  that  I  was  willing  to  make  that  sacrifice  and 
count  it  as  nothing  if  only  I  could  rescue  you  from  the  misery 
of  your  abominable  marriage." 

Then  he  broke  into  a  kind  of  fierce  laughter,  and  said : 

"It  seems  I  wasn't  wanted,  though.  You  say  in  effect 
that  my  love  is  sinful  and  criminal,  and  that  it  will  imperil 


294  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

your  soul.  So  I'm  only  making  mischief  here  and  the  sooner 
I  get  away  the  better  for  everybody. ' ' 

He  threw  off  my  hand,  stepped  to  the  door  to  the  balcony, 
and  looking  out  into  the  darkness  said,  between  choking 
laughter  and  sobs: 

"Elian,  you  are  no  place  for  me.  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of 
you  any  longer.  I  used  to  think  you  were  the  dearest  spot 
on  earth,  because  you  were  the  home  of  her  who  would  follow 
me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  if  I  wanted  her,  but  I  was  wrong. 
She  loves  me  less  than  a  wretched  ceremony,  and  would  sacri- 
fice my  happiness  to  a  miserable  bit  of  parchment. ' ' 

My  heart  was  clamouring  loud.  Never  had  I  loved  him  so 
much  as  now.  I  had  to  struggle  with  myself  not  to  throw 
myself  into  his  arms. 

"No  matter!"  he  said.  "I  should  be  a  poor-spirited  fool 
to  stay  where  I  'm  not  wanted.  I  must  get  back  to  my  work. 
The  sooner  the  better,  too.  I  thought  I  should  be  counting 
the  days  down  there  until  I  could  come  home  again.  But 
why  should  I  ?  And  why  should  I  care  what  happens  to  me  ? 
It's  all  as  one  now." 

He  stepped  back  from  the  balcony  with  a  resolute  expression 
on  his  gloomy  face,  and  I  thought  for  a  moment  (half  hoping 
and  half  fearing  it)  that  he  was  going  to  lay  hold  of  me  and 
tell  me  I  must  do  what  he  wished  because  I  belonged  to  him. 

But  he  only  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  turned  and  ran  out  of 
the  house. 

Let  who  will  say  his  tears  were  unmanly.  To  me  they  were 
the  bitter  cry  of  a  great  heart,  and  I  wanted  to  follow  him 
and  say,  ' '  Take  me.  Do  what  you  like  with  me.  I  am  yours. ' ' 

I  did  not  do  so.  I  sat  a  long  time  where  he  had  left  me  and 
then  I  went  into  my  room  and  locked  the  door. 

I  did  not  cry.  Unjust  and  cruel  as  his  reproaches  had  been, 
I  began  to  have  a  strange  wild  joy  in  them.  I  knew  that  he 
would  not  have  insulted  me  like  that  if  he  had  not  loved  me  to 
the  very  verge  of  madness  itself. 

Hours  passed.  Price  came  tapping  at  my  door  to  ask  if 
she  should  lock  up  the  house — meaning  the  balcony.  I  an- 
swered "No,  go  to  bed." 

I  heard  the  deadened  thud  of  Martin's  footsteps  on  the  lawn 
passing  to  and  fro.  Sometimes  they  paused  under  my  window 
and  then  I  had  a  feeling,  amounting  to  certainty,  that  he  was 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  295 

listening  to  hear  if  I  was  sobbing,  and  that  if  I  had  been  he 
would  have  broken  down  my  bedroom  door  to  get  to  me. 

At  length  I  heard  him  come  up  the  stone  stairway,  shut  and 
bolt  the  balcony  door,  and  walk  heavily  across  the  corridor 
to  his  own  room. 

The  day  was  then  dawning.    It  was  four  o'clock. 

SIXTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

I  AWOKE  on  Wednesday  morning  in  a  kind  of  spiritual  and 
physical  fever.  Every  conflicting  emotion  which  a  woman 
can  experience  in  the  cruel  battle  between  her  religion  and  her 
love  seemed  to  flood  body  and  soul — joy,  pain,  pride,  shame, 
fear,  rapture — so  that  I  determined  (not  without  cause)  to 
make  excuse  of  a  headache  to  stay  in  bed. 

Although  it  was  the  last  day  of  Martin 's  visit,  and  I  charged 
myself  with  the  discourtesy  of  neglecting  him,  as  well  as  the 
folly  of  losing  the  few  remaining  hours  of  his  company,  I 
thought  I  could  not  without  danger  meet  him  again. 

I  was  afraid  of  him,  but  I  was  still  more  afraid  of  myself. 

Recalling  my  last  sight  of  his  face  as  he  ran  out  of  the 
house,  and  knowing  well  the  desire  of  my  own  heart,  I  felt 
that  if  I  spent  another  day  in  his  company  it  would  be 
impossible  to  say  what  might  happen. 

As  a  result  of  this  riot  of  emotions  I  resolved  to  remain  all 
day  in  my  room,  and  towards  evening  to  send  out  a  letter 
bidding  him  good-bye  and  good-luck.  It  would  be  a  cold 
end  to  a  long  friendship  and  my  heart  was  almost  frozen  at 
the  thought  of  it,  but  it  was  all  I  dared  do  and  I  saw  no  help 
for  it. 

But  how  little  did  I  know  what  was  written  in  the  Book  of 
Fate  for  me ! 

First  came  Price  on  pretence  of  bathing  my  forehead,  and 
she  bombarded  me  with  accounts  of  Martin's  anxiety.  When 
he  had  heard  that  I  was  ill  he  had  turned  as  white  as  if 
sixteen  ounces  of  blood  had  been  taken  out  of  him.  It  nearly 
broke  me  up  to  hear  that,  but  Price,  who  was  artful,  only 
laughed  and  said: 

"Men  are  such  funny  things,  bless  them!  To  think  of 
that  fine  young  man,  who  is  big  enough  to  fell  an  ox  and  brave 
enough  to  face  a  lion,  being  scared  to  death  because  a  little 
lady  has  a  headache. ' ' 

All  morning  she  was  in  and  out  of  my  room  with  similar 


296  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

stories,  and  towards  noon  she  brought  me  a  bunch  of  roses 
wet  with  the  dew,  saying  that  Tommy  the  Mate  had  sent  them. 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  Tommy  the  Mate?"  I  asked,  where- 
upon the  sly  thing,  who  was  only  waiting  to  tell  the  truth, 
though  she  pretended  that  I  was  forcing  it  out  of  her, 
admitted  that  the  flowers  were  from  Martin,  and  that  he  had 
told  her  not  to  say  so. 

' '  What 's  he  doing  now  ? "  I  asked. 

"Writing  a  letter,"  said  Price,  "and  judging  by  the  times 
he  has  torn  it  up  and  started  again  and  wiped  his  forehead, 
it  must  be  a  tough  job,  I  can  tell  you. ' ' 

I  thought  I  knew  whom  the  letter  was  meant  for,  and  before 
luncheon  it  came  up  to  me. 

It  was  the  first  love  letter  I  had  ever  had  from  Martin,  and 
it  melted  me  like  wax  over  a  candle.  I  have  it  still,  and 
though  Martin  is  such  a  great  man  now,  I  am  tempted  to  copy 
it  out  just  as  it  was  written  with  all  its  appearance  of  irrever- 
ence (none,  I  am  sure,  was  intended),  and  even  its  bad  spell- 
ing, for  without  that  it  would  not  be  Martin — my  boy  who 
could  never  learn  his  lessons. 

"Dear  Mary, — I  am  destroyed  to  here  how  ill  you  are,  and 
when  I  think  it's  all  my  fault  I  am  ready  to  kick  myself. 

"Don't  worry  about  what  I  was  saying  last  night.  I  was 
mad  to  think  what  might  happen  to  you  while  I  should  be 
down  there,  but  I've  been  thinking  it  over  since  and  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  if  their  is  anything  to  God  He  can  be 
trusted  to  look  after  you  without  any  help  from  me,  so  when 
we  meet  again  before  I  go  away  we'll  never  say  another  word 
on  the  subject — that 's  a  promice. 

"I  can't  go  until  your  better  though,  so  I'm  just  sending 
the  jaunting  car  into  town  with  a  telegram  to  London  telling 
them  to  postpone  the  expedision  on  account  of  illness,  and  if 
they  think  it's  mine  it  won't  matter  because  it's  something 
worse. 

"But  if  you  are  realy  a  bit  better,  as  your  maid  says,  you 
might  come  to  the  window  and  wave  your  hand  to  me,  and  I 
shall  be  as  happy  as  a  sand-boy.  "Tours, 

"Mart." 

To  this  letter  (forgetting  my  former  fears)  I  returned  an 
immediate  verbal  reply,saying  I  was  getting  better  rapidly  and 
hoped  to  be  up  to  dinner,  so  he  must  not  send  that  telegram 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  297 

to  London  on  any  account,  seeing  that  nobody  knew  what  was 
going  to  happen  and  everything  was  in  the  hands  of  God. 

Price  took  my  message  with  a  knowing  smile  at  the  corner 
of  her  mouth,  and  a  few  minutes  afterwards  I  heard  Martin 
laughing  with  Tommy  the  Mate  at  the  other  end  of  the 
lawn. 

I  don 't  know  why  I  took  so  much  pains  with  my  dress  that 
night.  I  did  not  expect  to  see  Martin  again.  I  was  sending 
him  away  from  me.  Yet  never  before  had  I  dressed  myself 
with  so  much  care.  I  put  on  the  soft  white  satin  gown  which 
was  made  for  me  in  Cairo,  a  string  of  pearls  over  my  hair, 
and  another  (a  tight  one)  about  my  neck. 

Martin  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  boudoir,  and  to  my  sur- 
prise he  had  dressed  too,  but,  except  that  he  wore  a  soft  silk 
shirt,  I  did  not  know  what  he  was  wearing,  or  whether  he 
looked  handsome  or  not,  because  it  was  Martin  and  that  was 
all  that  mattered  to  me. 

I  am  sure  my  footstep  was  light  as  I  entered  the  room,  for 
I  was  shod  in  white  satin  slippers,  but  Martin  heard  it,  and 
I  saw  his  eyes  fluttering  as  he  looked  at  me,  and  said  some- 
thing sweet  about  a  silvery  fir  tree  with  its  little  dark  head 
against  the  sky. 

"  It 's  to  be  a  truce,  isn  't  it  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  a  truce,"  I  answered,  which  meant  that  as  this  was 
to  be  our  last  evening  together  all  painful  subjects  were  to 
be  put  aside. 

Before  we  sat  down  to  eat  he  took  me  out  on  to  the  balcony 
to  look  at  the  sea,  for  though  there  was  no  rain  flashes  of  sheet 
lightning  with  low  rumbling  of  distant  thunder  lit  up  the 
water  for  a  moment  with  visions  of  heavenly  beauty,  and  then 
were  devoured  by  the  grim  and  greedy  darkness. 

During  dinner  we  kept  faith  with  each  other.  In  order 
to  avoid  the  one  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  both  our 
minds,  we  played  at  being  children,  and  pretended  it  was 
the  day  we  sailed  to  St.  Mary's  Rock. 

Thinking  back  to  that  time,  and  all  the  incidents  which  he 
had  thought  so  heroic  and  I  so  tragic,  we  dropped  into  the 
vernacular,  and  I  called  him  "boy"  and  he  called  me  "bogh 
millish, ' '  and  at  every  racy  word  that  came  up  from  the  for- 
gotten cells  of  our  brains  we  shrieked  with  laughter. 

When  Martin  spoke  of  his  skipper  I  asked  "Is  he  a  stun- 
ner?" When  he  mentioned  one  of  his  scientific  experts  I 
inquired  "  Is  he  any  good  ? ' '  And  after  he  had  told  me  that  ha 


298  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

hoped  to  take  possession  of  some  island  in  the  name  of  the 
English  crown,  and  raise  the  Union  Jack  on  it,  I  said :  ' '  Do  or 
die,  we  allus  does  that  when  we  're  out  asploring. ' ' 

How  we  laughed!  He  laughed  because  I  laughed,  and  I 
laughed  because  he  was  laughing.  I  had  some  delicious 
moments  of  femininity  too  (such  as  no  woman  can  resist), 
until  it  struck  me  suddenly  that  in  all  this  make-beliere  we 
were  making  love  to  each  other  again.  That  frightened  me 
for  a  time,  but  I  told  myself  that  everything  was  safe  as  long 
as  we  could  carry  on  the  game. 

It  was  not  always  easy  to  do  so,  though,  for  some  of  our 
laughter  had  tears  behind  it,  and  some  of  our  memories  had 
an  unexpected  sting,  because  things  had  a  meaning  for  us  now 
which  they  never  had  before,  and  we  were  compelled  to  realise 
what  life  had  done  for  us. 

Thus  I  found  my  throat  throbbing  when  I  recalled  the  loss 
of  our  boat,  leaving  us  alone  together  on  that  cruel  rock  with 
the  rising  tide  threatening  to  submerge  us,  and  I  nearly  choked 
when  I  repeated  my  last  despairing  cry :  "  I  'm  not  a  stunner ! 
.  .  .  and  you  '11  have  to  give  me  up  .  .  .  and  leave  me 
here,  and  save  yourself." 

It  was  like  walking  over  a  solfataro  with  the  thin  hot  earth 
ready  to  break  up  under  our  feet. 

To  escape  from  it  I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  to 
sing.  I  dared  not  sing  the  music  I  loved  best — the  solemn 
music  of  the  convent — so  I  sang  some  of  the  nonsense  songs 
I  had  heard  in  the  streets.  At  one  moment  I  twisted  round 
on  the  piano  stool  and  said: 

"I'll  bet  you  anything" — (I  always  caught  Martin's  tone 
in  Martin's  company),  "you  can't  remember  the  song  I  sang 
sitting  in  the  boat  with  William  Rufus  on  my  lap." 

"I'll  bet  you  anything  I  can,"  said  Martin. 

' '  Oh,  no,  you  can 't, "  I  said. 

"Have  it  as  you  like,  bogh,  but  sing  it  for  all,"  said 
Martin,  and  then  I  sang — 

"Oh,  Sally's  the  gel  for  me, 
Our  Sally's  the  gel  for  me, 
I'll  marry  the  gel  that  I  love  best, 
When  I  come  back  from  sea." 

But  that  arrow  of  memory  had  been  sharpened  on  Time's 
grindstone  and  it  seemed  to  pierce  through  us,  so  Martin 
proposed  that  we  should  try  the  rollicking  chorus  which  the 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  299 

•xcursionists   had   sung  on   the   pleasure-steamer  the   night 
before. 

He  did  not  know  a  note  of  music  and  he  had  no  more  voice 
than  a  corn-crake,  but  crushing  up  on  to  the  music-stool  by  my 
side,  he  banged  away  with  his  left  hand  while  I  played  with  my 
right,  and  we  sang  together  in  a  wild  delightful  discord — 

"Ramsey  toivn,  Ramsey  town,  smiling  by  ike  sea, 
Here's  a  health  lo  my  true  love,  wheresoe'er  she  be." 

We  laughed  again  when  that  was  over,  but  I  knew  I  could 
not  keep  it  up  much  longer,  and  every  now  and  then  I  forgot 
that  I  was  in  my  boudoir  and  seemed  to  see  that  lonesome 
plateau,  twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  icy  barrier  that  guards 
the  Pole,  and  Martin  toiling  through  blizzards  over  rolling 
waves  of  snow. 

Towards  midnight  we  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  to  look 
at  the  lightning  for  the  last  time.  The  thunder  was  shaking 
the  cliffs  and  rolling  along  them  like  cannon-balls,  and  Martin 
said: 

"It  sounds  like  the  breaking  of  the  ice  down  there." 

When  we  returned  to  the  room  he  told  me  he  would  have 
to  be  off  early  in  the  morning,  before  I  was  out  of  bed,  having 
something  to  do  in  Blackwater,  where  "the  boys  were  getting 
up  a  spree  of  some  sort. ' ' 

In  this  way  he  rattled  on  for  some  minutes,  obviously 
talking  himself  down  and  trying  to  prevent  me  from  thinking. 
But  the  grim  moment  came  at  last,  and  it  was  like  the  empty 
gap  of  time  when  you  are  waiting  for  the  whirring  of  the 
clock  that  is  to  tell  the  end  of  the  old  year  and  the  beginning 
of  the  new. 

My  cuckoo  clock  struck  twelve.  Martin  looked  at  me.  I 
looked  at  him.  Our  eyes  fell.  He  took  my  hand.  It  was 
eold  and  moist.  His  own  was  hot  and  trembling. 

"So  this  is    ...    the  end,"  he  said. 

"Yes    .     .     .    the  end,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  we've  had  a  jolly  evening  to  finish  up  with,  any- 
way," he  said.  "I  shall  always  remember  it." 

I  tried  to  say  he  would  soon  have  other  evenings  to  think 
about  that  would  make  him  forget  this  one 

' '  Never  in  this  world ! "  he  answered. 

I  tried  to  wish  him  good  luck,  and  great  success,  and  a 
happy  return  to  fame  and  fortune. 


300  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  great  liquid  eyes  and  said: 

"Aw,  well,  that's  all  as  one  now." 

I  tried  to  tell  him  it  would  always  be  a  joy  to  me  to  remem- 
ber that  he  and  I  had  been  such  great,  great  friends. 

He  looked  at  me  again,  and  answered: 

"  That  'sail  as  one  also." 

I  reproached  myself  for  the  pain  I  was  causing  him,  and 
to  keep  myself  in  countenance  I  began  to  talk  of  the  beauty 
and  nobility  of  renunciation — each  sacrificing  for  the  other's 
sake  all  sinful  thoughts  and  desires. 

"Yes,  I'm  doing  what  you  wish,"  he  said.  "I  can't  deny 
you  anything." 

That  cut  me  deep,  so  I  went  on  to  say  that  if  I  had  acted 
otherwise  I  should  always  have  had  behind  me  the  memory 
of  the  vows  I  had  broken,  the  sacrament  I  had  violated,  and 
the  faith  I  had  abandoned. 

"All  the  same  we  might  have  been  very  happy,"  he  said, 
and  then  my  throat  became  so  thick  that  I  could  not  say  any 
more. 

After  a  few  moments  he  said : 

"It  breaks  my  heart  to  leave  you.  But  I  suppose  I  must, 
though  I  don 't  know  what  is  going  to  happen. ' ' 

"All  that  is  in  God's  hands,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "it's  up  to  Him  now." 

It  made  my  heart  ache  to  look  at  his  desolate  face,  so, 
struggling  hard  with  my  voice,  I  tried  to  tell  him  he  must 
not  despair. 

"You  are  so  young,"  I  said.  "Surely  the  future  holds 
much  happiness  for  you." 

And  then,  though  I  knew  that  the  bare  idea  of  another 
woman  taking  the  love  I  was  turning  away  would  have  made 
the  world  a  blank  for  me,  I  actually  said  something  about  the 
purest  joys  of  love  falling  to  his  lot  some  day. 

"No,  by  the  Lord  God,"  said  Martin.  "There'll  be  no 
other  woman  for  me.  If  I'm  not  to  have  you  I'll  wear  the 
willow  for  you  the  same  as  if  you  were  dead/' 

There  was  a  certain  pain  in  that,  but  there  was  a  thrill  of 
secret  joy  in  it  too. 

He  was  still  holding  my  hand.  We  held  each  other's  hands 
a  long  time.  In  spite  of  my  affected  resignation  I  could  not 
let  his  hand  go.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  a  drowning  woman  and 
his  hand  were  my  only  safety.  Nevertheless  I  said: 


I  PALL  IN  LOVE  301 

"We  must  say  good-night  and  good-bye  now." 
'And  if  it  is  for  ever?" 
'Don't  say  that." 
'But  if  it  is?" 

'Well,  then     ...     for  ever." 

'  At  least  give  me  something  to  take  away  with  me, ' '  he  said. 
'Better  not,"  I  answered,  but  even  as  I  spoke  I  dropped 
the  handkerchief  which  I  had  been  holding  in  my  other  hand 
and  he  picked  it  up. 

I  knew  that  my  tears,  though  I  was  trying  to  keep  them 
back,  were  trickling  down  my  cheeks.  I  saw  that  his  face  was 
all  broken  up  as  it  had  been  the  night  before. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  which  I  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  fierce  beating  of  my  pulse,  and  then  he  raised 
my  hand  to  his  lips,  dropped  it  gently  and  walked  over  to 
the  door. 

But  after  he  had  opened  it  he  turned  and  looked  at  me.  I 
looked  at  him,  longing,  craving,  hungering  for  his  love  as  for 
a  flame  at  which  my  heart  could  warm  itself. 

Then  came  a  blinding  moment.  It  seemed  as  if  in  an 
instant  he  lost  all  control  of  himself,  and  his  love  came  rushing 
upon  him  like  a  mighty  surging  river. 

Flinging  the  door  back  he  returned  to  me  with  long  strides, 
and  snatching  me  up  in  his  great  arms,  he  lifted  me  off  my 
feet,  clasped  me  tightly  to  him,  kissed  me  passionately  on 
the  mouth  and  cried  in  a  quivering,  husky  voice: 

"You  are  my  wife.  I  am  your  real  husband.  I  am  not 
leaving  you  because  you  are  married  to  this  brute,  but  for 
the  sake  of  your  soul.  We  love  each  other.  We  shall  continue 
to  love  each  other.  No  matter  where  you  are,  or  what  they 
do  with  you,  you  are  mine  and  always  will  be." 

My  blood  was  boiling.  The  world  was  reeling  round  me. 
There  was  a  roaring  in  my  brain.  All  my  spiritual  impulses 
had  gone.  I  was  a  woman,  and  it  was  the  same  to  me  as  if 
the  primordial  man  had  taken  possession  of  me  by  sheer  force. 
Yet  I  was  not  afraid  of  that.  I  rejoiced  in  it.  I  wanted  to 
give  myself  up  to  it. 

But  the  next  moment  Martin  had  dropped  me,  and  fled 
from  the  room,  clashing  the  door  behind  him. 

I  felt  as  if  a  part  of  myself  had  been  torn  from  my  breast 
and  had  gone  out  with  him. 

The  room  seemed  to  become  dark. 


SLXT  ¥  -XLNTJU.  CHAPTER 

FOB  a  TnMKPiit  I  stood  where  Martin  had  left  me,  throbbing 
through  and  through  like  an  open  wound,  telling  myself  that 
he  had  gone,  that  I  should  never  see  him  again,  and  that  I  had 
diitui  him  away  from  me. 

Those  passionate  kisses  had  deprived  me  of  the  power  of 
consecutive  thought.  I  could  only  fed.  And  the  one  thing 
I  felt  above  everything  else  was  that  the  remedy  I  had  pro- 
posed to  myself  for  my  unhappy  situation — renunciation — was 
able,  because  Martin  was  a  part  of  my  own  being  and 


without  him  I  could  not  five. 

"Martin!  Martin!  My  love!  My  love!"  cried  the  voice 
of  my  heart. 

In  fear  lest  I  had  spoken  the  words  aloud,  and  in  terror  of 
what  I  might  do  under  the  power  of  them,  I  hurried  into  my 
bedroom  and  locked  and  bolted  the  door. 

But  the  heart  knows  nothing  of  locks  and  bolts,  and  a 
•MMMMiL  afterwards  my  spirit  was  following  Martin  to  his 
room.  I  was  seeing  him  as  I  had  seen  him  last,  with  his  face 
full  of  despair,  and  I  was  accusing  myself  of  the  pain  I  had 
caused  iiim 

I  had  conquered  Martin,  but  I  had  conquered  myself  also. 
I  had  compelled  1»™»  to  submit,  but  his  submission  had  van- 


Even  if  I  had  a  right  to  impose  renunciation  on  myself, 
what  right  had  I  to  impose  it  upon  him,  who  did  not  desire  it, 
did  not  think  it  imiiMiij1,  was  not  reconciled  to  it,  and  only 
accepted  it  out  of  obedience  to  my  wfflf 

He  loved  me.  Xo  man  ever  loved  a  woman  more  dearly. 
He  deserved  to  be  loved  in  return.  He  had  done  nothing  to 
forfeit  love.  He  was  bound  by  no  ties.  And  yet  I  was  driving 
him  away  from  me.  What  right  had  I  to  do  so* 

I  began  to  see  that  I  had  acted  throughout  with  the  most 
abominable  yMMmfgfr,  Tn  lri«  great  love  he  had  said  little 
or  nothing  about  himself  Bntwhy  had /not  thought  of  him? 
In  the  struggles  of  my  religious  eonseienee  I  li*d  been  thinking 
of  myself  alone,  but  Martin  had  been  siiflVring  too,  and  I 
had  never  once  really  thought  of  that?  What  right  had  I  to 
make  Irim  suffer? 

After  a  while  I  began  to  prepare  for  bed,  but  it  took  ma 
to  undress,  Cor  I  stopped  cvay  moment  to  thinlr 

I  thought  of  the  long  yean  Martin  had  been  waiting  for  me, 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  303 

and  while  I  was  telling  myself  thai  he  had  kept  pore  for  my 
sake,  my  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  I  could  hardly  bear 
the  strain  of  it. 

It  cut  me  still  deeper  to  think  that  even  as  there  had  been 
no  other  woman  for  him  in  the  past  so  there  would  be  no 
other  in  the  future.  Never  as  long  as  he  lived!  I  was  as  sure 
of  that  as  of  the  breath  I  breathed,  and  when  I  remembered 
what  he  had  said  about  wearing  the  willow  for  me  as  if  I  were 
dead  I  was  almost  distracted. 

His  despairing  words  kept  ringing  mercilessly  in  my  ears — 
"It's  all  as  one  now";  "How  happy  we  might  have  been." 
I  wanted  to  go  to  him  and  tell  him  that  though  I  was  sending 
him  away  still  I  loved  him,  and  it  was  because  I  loved  him 
that  I  was  sending  him  away. 

I  had  made  one  step  towards  the  door  before  I  remembered 
that  it  was  too  late  to  carry  out  my  purpose.  The  opportunity 
had  passed.  Martin  had  gone  to  his  room.  He  might  even  be 
in  bed  by  this  time. 

But  there  are  spiritual  influences  which  control  our  bodies 
independently  of  our  wilL  I  put  on  my  dressing-gown  (being 
partly  undressed)  and  went  back  to  the  boudoir.  I  hardly 
knew  what  impulse  impelled  me  to  do  so,  and  neither  do  I 
know  why  I  went  from  the  boudoir  to  the  balcony  unices  it 
was  in  hope  of  the  melancholy  joy  of  standing  once  more 
where  Martin  and  I  had  stood  together  a  little  while  ago. 

I  was  alone  now.  The  low  thunder  was  still  rolling  along 
the  cliffs,  but  I  hardly  heard  it  The  white  sheet  lightning 
was  still  pulsing  in  the  sky  and  rising,  as  it  seemed,  out  of  the 
sea,  but  I  hardly  saw  it. 

At  one  moment  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  solitary  fishing  boat, 
under  its  brown  lugger  sails,  heading  towards  Blaekwater; 
at  the  next  moment  my  eyes  were  dazzled  as  by  a  flashlight 
from  some  unseen  battleship. 

Leaning  over  the  balcony  and  gazing  into  the  intermittent 
darkness  I  pictured  to  myself  the  barren  desolation  of  Martin's 
life  after  he  had  left  me.  Loving  me  so  much  he  might  fall 
into  some  excess,,  perhaps  some  vice,  and  if  that  happened  what 
would  be  the  measure  of  my  responsibility  f 

Losing  me  he  might  lose  his  faith  in  God.  I  had  read  of 
men  becoming  spiritual  castaways  after  they  had  lost  their 
anchorage  in  some  great  love;  and  I  asked  myself  what  should 
I  do  if  Martin  became  an  infideL 

And  when  I  told  myself  that  I  could  only  save  Martin's  soul 


304  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

by  sacrificing  my  own  I  was  overwhelmed  by  a  love  so  great 
that  I  thought  I  could  do  even  that. 

"Martin!    Martin!    Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  I  cried. 

I  felt  so  hot  that  I  opened  my  dressing-gown  to  cool  my  bare 
breast.  After  a  while  I  began  to  shiver  and  then  fearing  I 
might  take  cold  I  went  back  to  the  boudoir,  and  sat  down. 

I  looked  at  my  cuckoo  clock.  It  was  half-past  twelve. 
Only  half  an  hour  since  Martin  had  left,  me !  It  seemed  like 
hours  and  hours.  What  of  the  years  and  years  of  my  life  that 
I  had  still  to  spend  without  him? 

The  room  was  so  terribly  silent,  yet  it  seemed  to  be  full 
of  our  dead  laughter.  The  ghost  of  our  happiness  seemed  to 
haunt  it.  I  was  sure  I  could  never  live  in  it  again. 

I  wondered  what  Martin  would  be  doing  now.  Would  he  be 
in  bed  and  asleep,  or  sitting  up  like  this,  and  thinking  of  me 
as  I  was  thinking  of  him? 

At  one  moment  I  thought  I  heard  his  footsteps.  I  listened, 
but  the  sound  stopped.  At  another  moment,  covering  my  face 
with  my  hands,  I  thought  I  saw  him  in  his  room,  as  plainly 
as  if  there  were  no  walls  dividing  us.  He  was  holding  out  his 
hands  to  me,  and  his  face  had  the  yearning,  loving,  despairing 
expression  which  it  had  worn  when  he  looked  back  at  me  from 
the  door. 

At  yet  another  moment  I  thought  I  heard  him  calling  me. 

"Mary!" 

I  listened  again,  but  again  all  was  still,  and  when  I  told 
myself  that  if  in  actual  fact  he  had  spoken  my  name  it  was 
perhaps  only  to  himself  (as  I  was  speaking  his)  my  heart 
throbbed  up  to  my  throat. 

Once  more  I  heard  his  voice. 

"Mary!" 

I  could  bear  no  more.  Martin  wanted  me.  I  must  go  to 
him.  Though  body  and  soul  were  torn  asunder  I  must  go. 

Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  had  opened  the  door  and 
was  walking  across  the  corridor  in  the  direction  of  Martin's 
room. 

The  house  was  dark.  Everybody  had  gone  to  bed.  Light  as 
my  footsteps  were,  the  landing  was  creaking  under  me.  I 
knew  that  the  floors  of  the  grim  old  Castle  sometimes  made 
noises  when  nobody  walked  on  them,  but  none  the  less  I  felt 
afraid. 

Half  way  to  Martin's  door  I  stopped.     A  ghostly  hand 


I  FALL   IN  LOVE  305 

seemed  to  be  laid  on  my  shoulder  and  a  ghostly  voice  seemed 
to  say  in  my  ear : 

"Wait!  Reflect!  If  you  do  what  you  are  thinking  of 
doing  what  will  happen?  You  will  become  an  outcast.  The 
whole  body  of  your  own  sex  will  turn  against  you.  You  will 
be  a  bad  woman." 

I  knew  what  it  was.  It  was  my  conscience  speaking  to  me 
in  the  voice  of  my  Church — my  Church,  the  mighty,  irresis- 
tible power  that  was  separating  me  from  Martin.  I  was  its 
child,  born  in  its  bosom,  but  if  I  broke  its  laws  it  would  roll 
over  me  like  a  relentless  Juggernaut. 

It  was  not  at  first  that  I  could  understand  why  the  Church 
should  set  itself  up  against  my  Womanhood.  My  Woman- 
hood was  crying  out  for  life  and  love  and  liberty.  But  the 
Church,  in  its  inexorable,  relentless  voice,  was  saying,  "Thou 
Shalt  Not!" 

After  a  moment  of  impenetrable  darkness,  within  and 
without,  I  thought  I  saw  things  more  plainly.  The  Church 
was  the  soul  of  the  world.  It  stood  for  purity,  which  alone 
could  hold  the  human  family  together.  If  all  women  who 
had  made  unhappy  marriages  were  to  do  as  I  was  thinking 
of  doing  (no  matter  under  what  temptation)  the  world  would 
fall  to  wreck  and  ruin. 

Feeling  crushed  and  ashamed,  and  oh,  so  little  and  weak, 
I  groped  my  way  back  to  the  boudoir  and  closed  the  door. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened — one  of  those  little  acci- 
dents of  life  which  seem  to  be  thrown  off  by  the  mighty  hand 
of  Fate.  A  shaft  of  light  from  my  bedroom,  crossing  the  end 
of  my  writing-desk,  showed  me  a  copy  of  a  little  insular 
newspaper. 

The  paper,  which  must  have  come  by  the  evening  post,  had 
probably  been  opened  by  Martin,  and  for  that  reason  only  I 
took  it  up  and  glanced  at  it. 

The  first  thing  that  caught  my  eye  was  a  short  report 
headed  "Charity  Performance." 

It  ran : 

"The  English  ladies  and  gentlemen  from  Castle  Raa  who 
are  cruising  round  the  island  in  the  liandsome  steam 
yacht,  the  Cleopatra,  gave  a  variety  entertainment  last  night 
in  aid  of  the  Catholic  Mission  at  the  Palace,  Ravenstown. 

"At  the  end  of  the  performance  the  Lord  Bishop,  who  was 
present  in  person  and  watched  every  item  of  the  programme 

u 


306  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

with  obvious  enjoyment,  proposed  a  vote  of  thanks  in  his 
usual  felicitous  terms,  thanking  Lord  Raa  for  this  further 
proof  of  his  great  liberality  of  mind  in  helping  a  Catholic 
charity,  and  particularly  mentioning  the  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished Madame  Lier,  who  had  charmed  all  eyes  and  won 
all  hearts  by  her  serpentine  dances,  and  to  whom  the  Church 
in  Elian  would  always  be  indebted  for  the  handsome  sum 
which  had  been  the  result  of  her  disinterested  efforts  in 
promoting  the  entertainment. 

"It  is  understood  that  the  Cleopatra  will  leave  Ravenstown 
Harbour  to-morrow  morning  on  her  way  back  to  Port  Raa." 

That  was  the  end  of  everything.  It  came  upon  me  like  a 
torrent  and  swept  all  my  scruples  away. 

Such  was  the  purity  of  the  Church — threatening  me  with 
its  censures  for  wishing  to  follow  the  purest  dictates  of  my 
heart,  yet  taking  money  from  a  woman  like  Alma,  who  was 
bribing  it  to  be  blind  to  her  misconduct  and  to  cover  her  with 
its  good- will! 

My  husband  too — his  infidelities  were  flagrant  and  no- 
torious, yet  the  Church,  through  its  minister,  was  flattering 
his  vanity  and  condoning  his  offences! 

He  was  coming  back  to  me,  too — this  adulterous  husband, 
and  when  he  came  the  Church  would  require  that  I  should 
keep  "true  faith"  with  him,  whatever  his  conduct,  and  deny 
myself  the  pure  love  that  was  now  awake  within  me. 

But  no,  no,  no !  Never  again !  It  would  be  a  living  death. 
Accursed  be  the  power  that  could  doom  a  woman  to  a  living 
death ! 

Perhaps  I  was  no  longer  sane — morally  sane — and  if  so 
God  and  the  Church  will  forgive  me.  But  seeing  that  neither 
the  Church  nor  the  Law  could  liberate  me  from  this  bond 
which  I  did  not  make,  that  both  were  shielding  the  evil  man 
and  tolerating  the  bad  woman,  my  whole  soul  rose  in  revolt. 

I  told  myself  now  that  to  leave  my  husband  and  go  to 
Martin  would  be  to  escape  from  shame  to  honour. 

I  saw  Martin's  despairing  face  again  as  I  had  seen  it  at 
the  moment  of  our  parting,  and  my  brain  rang  with  his  pas- 
sionate words.  "You  are  my  wife.  I  am  your  real  husband. 
We  love  each  other.  We  shall  continue  to  love  each  other. 
No  matter  where  you  are,  or  what  they  do  with  you,  you 
are  mine  and  always  will  be." 


I  FALL  IN  LOVE  307 

Something  was  crying  out  within  me:  "Love  him!  Tell 
him  you  love  him.  Now,  now!  He  is  going  away.  To- 
morrow will  be  too  late.  Go  to  him.  This  will  be  your  true 
marriage.  The  other  was  only  legalised  and  sanctified 
prostitution. ' ' 

I  leapt  up,  and  tearing  the  door  open,  I  walked  with  strong 
steps  across  the  corridor  towards  Martin's  room. 

My  hair  was  down,  my  arms  were  bare  in  the  ample  sleeves 
of  my  dressing-gown,  and  my  breast  was  as  open  as  it  had 
been  on  the  balcony,  but  I  thought  nothing  of  all  that. 

I  did  not  knock  at  Martin's  door.  I  took  hold  of  the  handle 
as  one  who  had  a  right.  It  turned  of  itself  and  the  door 
opened. 

My  mind  was  in  a  whirl,  black  rings  were  circling  round 
my  eyes,  but  I  heard  my  trembling,  quivering,  throbbing 
voice,  as  if  it  had  been  the  voice  of  somebody  else,  saying: 

"Martin,  I  am  coming  in." 

Then  my  heart  which  had  been  beating  violently  seemed  to 
stop.  My  limbs  gave  way.  I  was  about  to  fall. 

At  the  next  moment  strong  arms  were  around  me.  I  had 
no  fear.  But  there  was  a  roaring  in  my  brain  such  as  the 
ice  makes  when  it  is  breaking  up. 

Oh,  you  good  women,  who  are  happy  in  the  love  that 
guards  you,  shields  you,  shelters  you,  wraps  you  round 
and  keeps  you  pure  and  true,  tread  lightly  over  the  pros- 
trate soul  of  your  sister  in  her  hour  of  trial  and  fierce 
temptation. 

And  you  blessed  and  holy  saints  who  kneel  before  the 
Mother  of  all  Mothers,  take  the  transgression  of  her  guilty 
child  to  Him  who — long  ago  in  the  house  of  the  self- 
righteous  Pharisee — said  to  the  woman  who  was  a  sinner 
and  yet  loved  much — the  woman  who  had  washed  His 
feet  with  her  tears  and  dried  them  with  the  hair  of  her 
head — "Thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee." 


FIFTH  PART 
I  BECOME  A  MOTHER 

SEVENTIETH  CHAPTER 

NEXT  morning,  at  half-past  eight,  my  Martin  left  me. 

"We  were  standing  together  in  the  boudoir  between  the 
table  and  the  fire,  which  was  burning  briskly,  for  the  sultry 
weather  had  gone  in  the  night,  and  the  autumn  air  was  keen, 
though  the  early  sun  was  shining. 

At  the  last  moment  he  was  unwilling  to  go,  and  it  was  as 
much  as  I  could  do  to  persuade  him.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of 
the  mysteries  which  God  alone  can  read  that  our  positions 
seemed  to  have  been  reversed  since  the  day  before. 

He  was  confused,  agitated,  and  full  of  self  reproaches, 
while  I  felt  no  fear  and  no  remorse,  but  only  an  indescribable 
joy,  as  if  a  new  and  gracious  life  had  suddenly  dawned  on  me. 

"I  don't  feel  that  I  can  leave  England  now,"  he  said. 

"You  can  and  you  must,"  I  answered,  and  then  I  spoke  of 
his  expedition  as  a  great  work  which  it  was  impossible  to 
put  off. 

"Somebody  else  must  do  it,  then,"  he  said. 

"Nobody  else  can,  or  shall,"  I  replied. 

* '  But  our  lives  are  for  ever  joined  together  now,  and  every- 
thing else  must  go  by  the  board. ' ' 

"Nothing  shall  go  by  the  board  for  my  sake,  Martin.  I 
refuse  and  forbid  it." 

Everything  had  been  arranged,  everything  settled,  great 
sums  of  money  had  been  subscribed  out  of  faith  in  him,  and 
him  only,  and  a  large  company,  was  ready  and  waiting  to  sail 
under  his  command.  He  was  the  Man  of  Destiny,  therefore 
nothing — nothing  whatever — must  keep  him  back. 

"Then  if  I  must  go,  you  must  go  too,"  he  said.  "I  mean 
you  must  go  with  me  to  London  and  wait  there  until  I  re- 
turn." 

' '  That  is  impossible, ' '  I  answered. 

The  eyes  of  the  world  were  on  him  now,  and  the  heart  of 
the  world  was  with  him.  If  I  did  what  he  desired  it  would 
reflect  dishonour  on  his  name,  and  he  should  not  suffer  for 
my  sake  under  any  circumstances. 

308 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  309 

"But  think  what  may  happen  to  you  while  I  am  away," 
he  said. 

"Nothing  will  happen  while  you  are  away,  Martin." 

' '  But  how  can  you  be  so  sure  of  the  future  when  God  alone 
knows  what  it  is  to  be?" 

"Then  God  will  provide  for  it,"  I  said,  and  with  that  last 
answer  he  had  to  be  satisfied. 

"You  must  take  a  letter  from  me  at  all  events,"  said 
Martin,  and  sitting  at  my  desk  he  began  to  write  one. 

It  is  amazing  to  me  now  when  I  come  to  think  of  it  that  I 
could  have  been  so  confident  of  myself  and  so  indifferent  to 
consequences.  But  I  was  thinking  of  one  thing  only — that 
Martin  must  go  on  his  great  errand,  finish  his  great  work 
and  win  his  great  reward,  without  making  any  sacrifice 
for  me. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  rose  from  the  desk  and  handed  me 
his  letter. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said.  "If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst 
you  may  find  it  of  some  use  some  day." 

I  took  it  and  doubled  it  and  continued  to  hold  it  in  my  hand. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  look  at  it!"  he  said. 

"No." 

"Not  even  to  see  whom  it  is  written  to?" 

' '  That   is   unnecessary. ' ' 

I  thought  I  knew  it  was  written  to  my  husband  or  my 
father,  and  it  did  not  matter  to  me  which,  for  I  had  de- 
termined not  to  use  it. 

"It  is  open — won't  you  see  what  it  says?" 

"That  is  unnecessary  also." 

I  thought  I  knew  that  Martin  had  tried  to  take  everything 
upon  himself,  and  I  was  resolved  that  he  should  not  do  so. 

He  looked  at  me  with  that  worshipful  expression  which, 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  loves  her,  makes  a  woman 
proud  to  be  alive. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  want  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  dress,  Mary," 
he  said,  and  after  that  there  was  a  moment  of  heavenly 
silence. 

It  was  now  half-past  eight — the  hour  when  the  motor-car 
had  been  ordered  round  to  take  him  to  the  town — and  though 
I  felt  as  if  I  could  shed  drops  of  my  blood  to  keep  back  the 
finger  of  my  cuckoo  clock  I  pointed  it  out  and  said  it  was 
time  for  him  to  go. 


310  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  think  our  parting  was  the  most  beautiful  moment  of  all 
my  life. 

We  were  standing  a  little  apart,  for  though  I  wanted  to 
throw  my  arms  about  his  neck  at  that  last  instant  I  would  not 
allow  myself  to  do  so,  because  I  knew  that  that  would  make 
it  the  harder  for  him  to  go. 

I  could  see,  too,  that  he  was  trying  not  to  make  it  harder 
for  me,  so  we  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment  while  my  bosom 
heaved  and  his  breath  came  quick. 

Then  he  took  my  right  hand  in  both  of  his  hands  and  said : 

"There  is  a  bond  between  us  now  which  can  never  be 
broken. ' ' 

"Never,"  I  answered. 

"Whatever  happens  to  either  of  us  we  belong  to  each  other 
for  ever." 

"For  ever  and  ever,"  I  replied. 

I  felt  his  hands  tighten  at  that,  and  after  another  moment 
of  silence,  he  said: 

'I  may  be  a  long  time  away,  Mary." 

'I  can  wait." 

'Down  there  a  man  has  to  meet  many  dangers." 

'You  will  come  back.    Providence  will  take  care  of  you." 

'I  think  it  will.    I  feel  I  shall.    But  if  I  don't  .  .  ." 

I  knew  what  he  was  trying  to  say.  A  shadow  seemed  to 
pass  between  us.  My  throat  grew  thick,  and  for  a  moment 
I  could  not  speak.  But  then  I  heard  myself  say: 

"Love  is  stronger  than  death;  many  waters  cannot  quench 
it." 

His  hands  quivered,  his  whole  body  trembled,  and  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  clasp  me  to  his  breast  as  before,  but 
he  only  drew  down  my  forehead  with  his  hot  hand  and 
kissed  it 

That  was  all,  but  a  blinding  mist  seemed  to  pass  before  my 
eyes,  and  when  it  cleared  the  door  of  the  room  was  open  and 
my  Martin  was  gone. 

I  stood  where  he  had  left  me  and  listened. 

I  heard  his  strong  step  on  the  stone  flags  of  the  hall — he 
was  going  out  at  the  porch. 

I  heard  the  metallic  clashing  of  the  door  of  the  automobile 
— he  was  already  in  the  car. 

I  heard  the  throb  of  the  motor  and  ruckling  of  the  gravel 
of  the  path — he  was  moving  away. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  311 

I  heard  the  dying  down  of  the  engine  and  the  soft  roll  of 
the  rubber  wheels — I  was  alone. 

For  some  moments  after  that  the  world  seemed  empty  and 
void.  But  the  feeling  passed,  and  when  I  recovered  my 
strength  I  found  Martin's  letter  in  my  moist  left  hand. 

Then  I  knelt  before  the  fire,  and  putting  the  letter  into  the 
flames  I  burnt  it. 

SEVENTY-FIRST   CHAPTER 

WITHIN  two  hours  of  Martin's  departure  I  had  regained  com- 
plete possession  of  myself  and  was  feeling  more  happy  than 
I  had  ever  felt  before. 

The  tormenting  compunctions  of  the  past  months  were 
gone.  It  was  just  as  if  I  had  obeyed  some  higher  law  of  my 
being  and  had  become  a  freer  and  purer  woman. 

My  heart  leapt  within  me  and  to  give  free  rein  to  the  riot 
of  my  joy  I  put  on  my  hat  and  cloak  to  go  into  the  glen. 

Crossing  the  garden  I  came  upon  Tommy  the  Mate,  who 
told  me  there  had  been  a  terrific  thunderstorm  during  the 
night,  with  torrential  rain,  which  had  torn  up  all  the  foreign 
plants  in  his  flower-beds. 

"It  will  do  good,  though,"  said  the  old  man.  "Clane  out 
some  of  their  dirty  ould  drains,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Then  he  spoke  of  Martin,  whom  he  had  seen  off,  saying  he 
would  surely  come  back. 

"  'Deed  he  will  though.  A  boy  like  yander  wasn't  born  to 
lave  his  bark  in  the  ice  and  snow.  .  .  .  Not  if  his  anchor's 
at  home,  anyway" — with  a  "glime"  in  my  direction. 

How  the  glen  sang  to  me  that  morning!  The  great  cathe- 
dral of  nature  seemed  to  ring  with  music — the  rustling  of  the 
leaves  overhead,  the  ticking  of  the  insects  underfoot,  the 
bleating  of  the  sheep,  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  light  chant- 
ing of  the  stream,  the  deep  organ-song  of  the  sea,  and  then 
the  swelling  and  soaring  Gloria  in  my  own  bosom,  which  shot 
up  out  of  my  heart  like  a  lark  out  of  the  grass  in  the 
morning. 

I  wanted  to  run,  I  wanted  to  shout,  and  when  I  came  to  the 
paths  where  Martin  and  I  had  walked  together  I  wanted — 
silly  aa  it  sounds  to  say  so — to  go  down  on  my  knees  and  kiss 
the  very  turf  which  his  feet  had  trod. 

I  took  lunch  in  the  boudoir  as  before,  but  I  did  not  feel  as 
if  I  were  alone,  for  I  had  only  to  close  my  eyes  and  Martin, 


312  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

from  the  other  side  of  the  table,  seemed  to  be  looking  across 
at  me.  And  neither  did  I  feel  that  the  room  was  full  of  dead 
laughter,  for  our  living  voices  seemed  to  be  ringing  in  it  still. 

After  tea  I  read  again  my  only  love-letter,  revelling  in  the 
dear  delightful  errors  in  spelling  which  made  it  Martin's  and 
nobody  else's,  and  then  I  observed  for  the  first  time  what 
was  said  about  "the  boys  of  Blackwater,"  and  their  intention 
of  "getting  up  a  spree." 

This  suggested  that  perhaps  Martin  had  not  yet  left  the 
island  but  was  remaining  for  the  evening  steamer,  in  order  to 
be  present  at  some  sort  of  celebrations  to  be  given  in  his 
honour. 

So  at  seven  o'clock — it  was  dark  by  that  time — I  was  down 
at  the  Quay,  sitting  in  our  covered  automobile,  which  had 
been  drawn  up  in  a  sheltered  and  hidden  part  of  the  pier, 
almost  opposite  the  outgoing  steamer. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  scene  that  followed? 

First,  came  a  band  of  music  playing  one  of  our  native 
songs,  which  was  about  a  lamb  that  had  been  lost  in  the 
snow,  and  how  the  Big  Man  of  the  Farm  went  out  in  search 
of  it,  and  found  it  and  brought  it  home  in  his  arms. 

Then  came  a  double  row  of  young  men  carrying  flags  and 
banners — fine,  clean-limbed  lads  such  as  make  a  woman's 
heart  leap  to  look  at  them. 

Then  came  Martin  in  a  jaunting  car  with  a  cheering  crowd 
alongside  of  him,  trying  to  look  cheerful  but  finding  it  fear- 
fully hard  to  do  so. 

And  then — and  this  touched  me  most  of  all — a  double  line 
of  girls  in  knitted  woollen  caps  (such  as  men  wear  in  frozen 
regions)  over  their  heads  and  down  the  sides  of  their  comely 
faces. 

I  was  crying  like  a  child  at  the  sight  of  it  all,  but  none  the 
less  I  was  supremely  happy. 

When  the  procession  reached  the  gangway  Martin  dis- 
appeared into  the  steamer,  and  then  the  bandsmen  ranged 
themselves  in  front  of  it,  and  struck  up  another  song: 

"Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 
Come  back,  aroon,  to  the  land  of  your  birth." 

In  another  moment  every  voice  in  the  crowd  seemed  to 
take  up  the  refrain. 

That  brought  Martin  on  to  the  captain's  bridge,  where  he 
stood  bareheaded,  struggling  to  smile. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  313 

By  tills  time  the  last  of  the  ship's  bells  had  rung,  the 
funnels  were  belching,  and  the  captain's  voice  was  calling  on 
the  piermen  to  clear  away. 

At  last  the  hawsers  were  thrown  off  and  the  steamer  started, 
but,  with  Martin  still  standing  bareheaded  on  the  bridge, 
the  people  rushed  to  the  end  of  the  pier  to  see  the  last  of  him. 

There  they  sang  again,  louder  than  ever,  the  girls'  clear 
voices  above  all  the  rest,  as  the  ship  sailed  out  into  the  dark 
sea. 

"Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 
Come  back,  aroon,  to  the  land  of  your  birth." 

As  well  as  I  could,  for  the  mist  in  my  eyes  was  blinding 
me,  I  watched  the  steamer  until  she  slid  behind  the  headland 
of  the  bay,  round  the  revolving  light  that  stands  on  the  point 
of  it — stretching  my  neck  through  the  window  of  the  car, 
while  the  fresh  wind  from  the  sea  smote  my  hot  face  and  the 
salt  air  licked  my  parched  lips.  And  then  I  fell  back  in  my 
seat  and  cried  for  sheer  joy  of  the  love  that  was  shown  to 
Martin. 

The  crowd  was  returning  down  the  pier  by  this  time,  like  a 
black  river  running  in  the  darkness  and  rumbling  over  rugged 
stones,  and  I  heard  their  voices  as  they  passed  the  ear. 

One  voice — a  female  voice — said: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  our  Martin  Conrad!" 

And  then  another  voice — a  male  voice — answered: 

"By  God  he's  a  Man!" 

Within  a  few  minutes  the  pier  was  deserted,  and  the 
chauffeur  was  saying: 

"Home,  my  lady?" 

"Home,"  I  answered. 

Seeing  Martin  off  had  been  too  much  like  watching  the  life- 
boat on  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  when  the  lights  dip  behind 
a  monstrous  wave  and  for  some  breathless  moments  you  fear 
they  will  never  rise. 

But  as  we  drove  up  the  head  I  caught  the  lights  of  the 
steamer  again  now  far  out  at  sea,  and  well  I  knew  that  as 
surely  as  my  Martin  was  there  he  was  thinking  of  me  and 
looking  back  towards  the  house  in  which  he  had  left  me  be- 
hind him. 

When  we  reached  the  Castle  I  found  to  my  surprise  that 
every  window  was  ablaze. 

The  thrum  of  the  automobile  brought  Price  into  the  hall. 


314  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

She  told  me  that  the  yachting  party  had  come  back,  and 
were  now  in  their  bedrooms  dressing  for  dinner. 

As  I  went  upstairs  to  my  own  apartments  I  heard  trills  of 
laughter  from  behind  several  of  the  closed  doors,  mingled 
with  the  muffled  humming  of  various  music-hall  ditties. 

And  then  suddenly  a  new  spirit  seemed  to  take  possession 
of  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  become  another  woman. 


My  darling  was  right.  For  a  long  hour  after  leaving  Black- 
water  I  continued  to  stand  on  the  captain's  bridge,  looking 
back  at  the  lighted  windows  of  the  house  above  Port  Raa, 
and  asking  myself  the  question  which  for  sixteen  months 
thereafter  was  to  haunt  me  day  and  night — Why  had  I  left 
her  behind  me? 

In  spite  of  all  her  importunities,  all  her  sweet  unselfish 
thought  of  my  own  aims  and  interests,  all  her  confidence  in 
herself,  all  her  brave  determination  to  share  responsibility 
for  whatever  the  future  might  have  in  store  for  us — Why  had 
I  left  her  behind  me? 

The  woman  God  gave  me  was  mine — why  had  I  left  her 
in  the  house  of  a  man  who,  notwithstanding  his  infidelities 
and  brutalities,  had  a  right  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  the  church, 
and  the  world  to  call  her  his  wife  and  to  treat  her  accordingly  ? 

Let  me  make  no  pretence  of  a  penitence  I  did  not  feel. 
Never  for  one  moment  did  I  reproach  myself  for  what  had 
happened.  Never  for  the  shadow  of  a  moment  did  I  re- 
proach her.  She  had  given  herself  to  me  of  her  queenly  right 
and  sovereign  grace  as  every  good  woman  in  the  world  must 
give  herself  to  the  man  she  loves  if  their  union  is  to  be  pure 
and  true. 

But  why  did  I  not  see  then,  as  I  see  now,  that  it  is  the  law 
of  Nature — the  cruel  and  at  the  same  time  the  glorious  law 
of  Nature — that  the  woman  shall  bear  the  burden,  the  woman 
shall  pay  the  price? 

It  is  over  now,  and  though  many  a  time  since  my  sweet 
girl  has  said  out  of  her  stainless  heart  that  everything  has 
worked  out  for  the  best,  and  suffering  is  God's  salt  for  keep- 
ing our  souls  alive,  when  I  think  of  what  she  went  through 
..or  me,  while  I  was  out  of  all  reach  and  sight,  I  know  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself  for  leaving  her  behind — never,  never, 
never.  M.  0. 

[END  OP  MARTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER          315 


SEVENTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

As  this  will  be  the  last  time  I  shall  have  to  speak  of  my  hus- 
band's guests,  I  wish  to  repeat  that  I  am  trying  to  describe 
them  without  malice  exactly  as  they  were — selfish,  cruel, 
ill-mannered,  and  insincere. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  while  I  was  dressing,  and  on  going 
downstairs  a  few  minutes  afterwards  I  found  that  there  had 
been  no  attempt  to  wait  for  me. 

Already  the  whole  party  were  assembled  at  the  table,  my 
husband  being  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  Alma  (incredible  as  it 
may  seem)  in  the  place  of  the  hostess  at  the  head. 

This,  in  my  altered  mood,  was  more  than  I  could  bear,  so, 
while  the  company  made  some  attempt  to  welcome  me  with 
rather  crude  salutations,  and  old  Mrs.  Lier  cried,  "Come 
along  here,  my  pore  dear,  and  tell  me  how  you've  gotten  on 
while  we've  been  away"  (indicating  an  empty  seat  by  her 
side),  I  walked  boldly  up  to  Alma,  put  my  hand  on  the  back 
of  her  chair  and  said,  "If  you  please." 

Alma  looked  surprised.  But  after  a  moment  she  carried 
off  the  difficult  situation  by  taking  the  seat  which  had  been 
reserved  for  me  beside  her  mother,  by  congratulating  me  on 
my  improved  appearance  and  herself  on  relief  from  the 
necessity  of  filling  my  place  and  discharging  my  responsible 
duties. 

My  husband,  with  the  rest  of  the  company,  had  looked  up 
at  the  awkward  incident,  and  I  thought  I  saw  by  his  curious 
grimace  that  he  supposed  my  father  (of  whom  he  was  always 
in  fear)  had  told  me  to  assert  myself.  But  Alma,  with  surer 
instinct,  was  clearly  thinking  of  Martin,  and  almost  imme- 
diately she  began  to  speak  of  him. 

"So  your  great  friend  has  just  gone,  dearest.  The  servants 
are  crazy  about  him.  We've  missed  him  again,  you  see.  Too 
bad !  I  hope  you  gave  him  our  regrets  and  excuses — did  you  ? ' ' 

The  evil  one  must  have  taken  hold  of  me  by  this  time,  for 
I  said: 

"I  certainly  did  not,  Alma." 

"Why  not,  my  love?" 

"Because  we  have  a  saying  in  our  island  that  it's  only  the 
ass  that  eats  the  cushag" — a  bitter  weed  that  grows  in  barren 
places. 

Alma  joined  in  the  general  laughter  which  followed  this 


316  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

rather  intemperate  reply,  and  then  led  off  the  conversation 
on  the  incidents  of  the  cruise. 

I  gathered  that,  encouraged  by  her  success  in  capturing  the 
Bishop  by  her  entertainment,  she  had  set  herself  to  capture 
the  "aristocracy"  of  our  island  by  inviting  them  to  a  dance 
on  the  yacht,  while  it  lay  at  anchor  off  Holmtown,  and  the 
humour  of  the  moment  was  to  play  battledore  and  shuttle- 
cock with  the  grotesque  efforts  of  our  great  people  (the  same 
that  had  figured  at  my  wedding)  to  grovel  before  my  hus- 
band and  his  guests. 

' '  I  say,  Jimmy, ' '  cried.  Mr.  Vivian  in  his  shrill  treble,  ' '  do 
you  remember  the  old  gal  in  the  gauze  who — etc.  .  .  .  ' 

"But  do  you  remember,"  cried  Mr.  Eastcliff,  "the  High 
Bailiff  or  Bum  Bailiff  with  the  bottle-nose  who — etc.  .  .  .  ?" 

"Killing,  wasn't  it,  Vivian?"  said  one  of  the  ladies. 

"Perfectly  killing,"  said  everybody. 

This  shocking  exhibition  of  bad  manners  had  not  gone 
on  very  long  before  I  became  aware  that  it  was  being  impro- 
vised for  my  benefit. 

After  Alma  had  admitted  that  the  Bishop  was  a  "great 
flirt"  of  hers,  and  Mr.  Vivian,  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  had 
christened  him  her  "crush,"  she  turned  to  me  and  said,  with 
her  smiling  face  slightly  drawn  down  on  one  side : 

"Mary,  my  love,  you  will  certainly  agree  that  your  is- 
landers who  do  not  eat  cushags,  poor  dears,  are  the  funniest 
people  alive  as  guests." 

"Not  funnier,"  I  answered,  "than  the  people  who  laugh 
at  them  as  hosts. ' ' 

It  was  not  easy  to  laugh  at  that,  so  to  cover  Alma's  con- 
fusion the  men  turned  the  talk  to  their  usual  topic,  horses 
and  dogs,  and  I  heard  a  great  deal  about  "laying  on  the 
hounds,"  which  culminated  in  a  rather  vulgar  story  of  how 
a  beater  who  "wasn't  nippy  on  his  pins"  had  been  "pep- 
pered from  behind,"  whereupon  he  had  "bellowed  like  a 
bull ' '  until  ' '  soothed  down  by  a  sov. ' ' 

I  cannot  say  how  long  the  talk  would  have  continued  in 
this  manner  if  old  Mrs.  Lier,  addressing  herself  to  me,  had 
not  struck  a  serious  subject. 

It  was  about  Alma's  dog,  which  was  dead.  The  poor 
wheezy  spaniel  had  died  in  the  course  of  the  cruise,  though 
what  the  cause  of  its  death  was  nobody  knew,  unless  it  had 
been  fretting  for  its  mistress  during  the  period  of  quarantine 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  317 

which  the  absurd  regulations  of  government  had  required 
on  our  return  from  abroad. 

The  dog  having  died  at  sea,  I  presumed  it  had  been  buried 
there,  but  no,  that  seemed  to  shock  the  company  as  an  un- 
feeling supposition.  The  ship's  carpenter  had  made  a  coffin 
for  it — a  beautiful  one  of  mahogany  with  a  plate-glass  inset 
at  the  head,  and  a  gilt-lettered  inscription  below,  giving  the 
dog's  name,  Pine,  and  its  age,  three. 

In  this  condition  it  had  been  brought  ashore,  and  was 
now  lying  in  a  kind  of  state  in  Alma's  dressing-room.  But 
to-morrow  it  was  to  be  buried  in  the  grounds,  probably  in  the 
glen,  to  which  the  company,  all  dressed  in  black,  were  to  fol- 
low in  procession  as  at  a  human  funeral. 

I  was  choking  with  anger  and  horror  at  the  recital  of  these 
incredible  arrangements,  and  at  the  close  of  it  I  said  in  a 
clear,  emphatic  voice: 

"I  must  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  not  to  do  that,  please." 

"Why  not,  my  dear?"  said  Alma. 

' '  Because  I  do  not  wish  and  cannot  permit  it, "  I  answered. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  after  this  unexpected  pro- 
nouncement, and  when  the  conversation  was  resumed  my 
quick  ears  (which  have  not  always  added  to  my  happiness) 
caught  the  half -smothered  words: 

"Getting  a  bit  sidey,  isn't  she?" 

Nevertheless,  when  I  rose  to  leave  the  dining-room,  Alma 
wound  her  arm  round  my  waist,  called  me  her  "dear  little 
nun,"  and  carried  me  off  to  the  hall. 

There  we  sat  about  the  big  open  fire,  and  after  a  while 
the  talk  became  as  free  as  it  often  is  among  fashionable 
ladies  of  a  certain  class. 

Mr.  Eastcliff's  Camilla  told  a  slightly  indelicate  anecdote 
of  a  "dresser"  she  had  had  at  the  theatre,  and  then  another 
young  woman  (the  same  who  "adored  the  men  who  went  to 
the  deuce  for  a  woman")  repeated  the  terms  of  an  advertise- 
ment she  had  seen  in  a  Church  newspaper:  "A  parlour- 
maid wants  a  situation  in  a  family  where  a  footman  is  kept." 

The  laughter  which  followed  this  story  was  loud  enough, 
but  it  was  redoubled  when  Alma's  mother,  from  the  depths 
of  an  arm-chair,  said,  with  her  usual  solemnity,  that  she 
"didn't  see  nothing  to  laugh  at"  hi  that,  and  "the  pore 
girl  hadn't  no  such  thought  as  they  had." 

Again  I  was  choking  with  indignation,  and  in  order  to 
assert  myself  once  for  all  I  said : 


318  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Ladies,  I  will  ask  you  to  discontinue  this  kind  of  con- 
versation. I  don't  like  it." 

At  last  the  climax  came. 

About  ten  days  after  Martin  left  me  I  received  a  telegram, 
which  had  been  put  ashore  at  Southampton,  saying,  "Good- 
bye! God  bless  you!"  and  next  day  there  came  a  newspaper 
containing  an  account  of  his  last  night  at  Tilbury. 

He  had  given  a  dinner  to  a  number  of  his  friends,  including 
his  old  commander  and  his  wife,  several  other  explorers  who 
happened  to  be  in  London,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  journal  which  had  promoted  his  expedition. 

They  had  dined  in  the  saloon  of  the  "Scotia"  (how  vividly 
I  remembered  it!),  finishing  up  the  evening  with  a  dance  on 
deck  in  the  moonlight ;  and  when  the  time  came  to  break  up, 
Martin  had  made  one  of  his  sentimental  little  speechas  (all 
heart  and  not  too  much  grammar),  in  which  he  said  that  in 
starting  out  for  another  siege  of  the  South  Pole  he  "couldn't 
help  thinking,  with  a  bit  of  a  pain  under  the  third  button 
of  his  double-breasted  waistcoat,  of  the  dear  ones  they  were 
leaving  behind,  and  of  the  unknown  regions  whither  they 
were  tending  where  dancing  would  be  forgotten." 

I  need  not  say  how  this  moved  me,  being  where  I  was,  in 
that  uncongenial  company;  but  by  some  mischance  I  left 
the  paper  which  contained  it  on  the  table  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  on  going  downstairs  after  breakfast  next  morning  I 
found  Alma  stretched  out  in  a  rocking-chair  before  the  fire  in 
the  hall,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  reading  the  report  aloud  in  a 
mock  heroic  tone  to  a  number  of  the  men,  including  my  hus- 
band, whose  fat  body  (he  was  growing  corpulent)  was 
shaking  with  laughter. 

It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  control  an  impulse  to  jump 
down  and  flare  out  at  them,  but,  being  lightly  shod,  I  was 
standing  quietly  in  their  midst  before  they  were  aware  of  my 
presence. 

"Ah,"  said  Alma,  with  the  sweetest  and  most  insincere 
of  her  smiles,  "we  were  just  enjoying  the  beautiful  account 
of  your  friend's  last  night  in  England." 

"So  I  see,"  I  said,  and,  boiling  with  anger  underneath,  I 
quietly  took  the  paper  out  of  her  hand  between  the  tips  of 
my  thumb  and  first  finger  (as  if  the  contamination  of  her 
touch  had  made  it  unclean)  and  carried  it  to  the  fire  and 
burnt  it. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  319 

This  semed  to  be  the  end  of  all  things.  The  tall  Mr. 
Eastcliff  went  over  to  the  open  door  and  said: 

"Deuced  fine  day  for  a  motor  drive,  isn't  it?" 

That  gentleman  had  hitherto  shown  no  alacrity  in  estab- 
lishing the  truth  of  Alma 's  excuse  for  the  cruise  on  the  ground 
of  his  visit  to  "his  friend  who  had  taken  a  shoot  in  Skye;" 
but  now  he  found  himself  too  deeply  interested  in  the  Inver- 
ness Meeting  to  remain  longer,  while  the  rest  of  the  party 
bcame  so  absorbed  in  the  Perth  and  Ayr  races,  salmon- 
fishing  on  the  Tay,  and  stag-shooting  in  the  deer-forests  of 
Invercauld,  that  within  a  week  thereafter  I  had  said  good- 
bye to  all  of  them. 

All  save  Alma. 

I  was  returning  from  the  hall  after  the  departure  of  a 
group  of  my  guests  when  Alma  followed  me  to  my  room  and 
said: 

"My  dear,  sweet  girl,  I  want  you  to  do  me  the  greatest 
kindness." 

She  had  to  take  her  mother  to  New  York  shortly;  but  as 
"that  dear  old  dunce"  was  the  worst  of  all  possible  sailors, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  wait  for  the  largest  of  all  possible 
steamers,  and  as  the  largest  steamers  sailed  from  Liverpool, 
and  Elian  was  so  near  to  that  port,  perhaps  I  would  not 
mind  .  .  .  just  for  a  week  or  two  longer.  .  .  . 

What  could  I  say?  What  I  did  say  was  what  I  had  said 
before,  with  equal  weakness  and  indiscretion,  but  less  than 
equal  danger.  A  word,  half  a  word,  and  almost  before  it  was 
spoken,  Alma's  arms  were  about  my  neck  and  she  was  calling 
me  her  "dearest,  sweetest,  kindest  friend  in  the  world." 

My  maid  Price  was  present  at  this  interview,  and  hardly 
had  Alma  left  the  boudoir  when  she  was  twitching  at  my 
arm  and  whispering  in  my  ear: 

"My  lady,  my  lady,  don't  you  see  what  the  woman  wants? 
She's  watching  you." 

SEVENTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

MY  husband  was  the  next  to  go. 

He  made  excuse  of  his  Parliamentary  duties.  He  might  be 
three  or  four  weeks  away,  but  meantime  Alma  would  be  with 
me,  and  in  any  case  I  was  not  the  sort  of  person  to  feel 
lonely. 

Never  having  heard  before  of  any  devotion  to  Irs  duty  as 


320  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

a  peer,  I  asked  if  that  was  all  that  was  taking  him  to  London. 

"Perhaps  not  all,"  he  answered,  and  then,  with  a  twang 
of  voice  and  a  twitch  of  feature,  he  said: 

"I'm  getting  sick  of  this  God-forsaken  place,  and  then  .  .  . 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  your  own  behaviour  is  beginning  to  raw 
me." 

With  my  husband's  departure  my  triumphal  course  seemed 
to  come  to  a  close.  Left  alone  with  Alma,  I  became  as  weak 
and  irresolute  as  before  and  began  to  brood  upon  Price's 
warning. 

My  maid  had  found  a  fierce  delight  in  my  efforts  to  assert 
myself  as  mistress  in  my  husband's  house,  but  now  (taking 
her  former  advantage)  she  was  for  ever  harping  upon  my 
foolishness  in  allowing  Alma  to  remain  in  it. 

"She's  deceiving  you,  my  lady,"  said  Price.  '"Her  waiting 
for  a  steamer  indeed!  Not  a  bit  of  her.  If  your  ladyship 
will  not  fly  out  at  me  again  and  pack  me  off  bag  and  baggage, 
111  tell  you  what's  she's  waiting  for." 

"What?" 

"She's  waiting  for  .  .  .  she  thinks  .  .  .  she  fancies  .  .  . 
well,  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  my  lady,  the  bad-minded 
thing  suspects  that  something  is  going  to  happen  to  your 
ladyship,  and  she's  just  waiting  for  the  chance  of  telling  his 
lordship. ' ' 

I  began  to  feel  ill.  A  dim,  vague,  uneasy  presentiment  of 
coming  trouble  took  frequent  possession  of  my  mind. 

I  tried  to  suppress  it.  I  struggled  to  strangle  it  as  an  ugly 
monster  created  by  the  nervous  strain  I  had  been  going 
through,  and  for  a  time  I  succeeded  in  doing  so.  I  had  told 
Martin  that  nothing  would  happen  dnring  his  absence,  and  I 
compelled  myself  to  believe  that  nothing  would  or  could. 

Weeks  passed;  the  weather  changed;  the  golden  hue  of 
autumn  gave  place  to  a  chilly  greyness;  the  sky  became  sad 
with  winterly  clouds;  the  land  became  soggy  with  frequent 
rains ;  the  trees  showed  their  bare  black  boughs ;  the  withered 
leaves  drifted  along  the  roads  before  blustering  winds  that 
came  up  from  the  sea ;  the  evenings  grew  long  and  the  morn- 
ings dreary;  but  still  Alma,  with  her  mother,  remained  at 
Castle  Raa. 

I  began  to  be  afraid  of  her.  Something  of  the  half- 
hypnotic  spell  which  she  had  exercised  over  me  when  I  was  a 
child  asserted  itself  again,  but  now  it  seemed  to  me  to  be 
always  evil  and  sometimes  almost  demoniacal. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  321 

I  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  watching  me  day  and  night. 
Occasionally,  when  she  thought  I  was  looking  down,  I  caught 
the  vivid  gaze  of  her  coal-black  eyes  looking  across  at  me 
through  her  long  sable-coloured  eyelashes. 

Her  conversation  was  as  sweet  and  suave  as  ever,  but  I 
found  myself  creeping  away  from  her  and  even  shrinking 
from  her  touch. 

More  than  once  I  remembered  what  Martin  in  his  blunt 
way  had  said  of  her:  "I  hate  that  woman;  she's  like  a 
snake;  I  want  to  put  my  foot  on  it." 

The  feeling  that  I  was  alone  in  this  great  gaunt  house  with 
a  woman  who  was  waiting  and  watching  to  do  me  a  mischief, 
that  she  might  step  into  my  shoes,  was  preying  upon  my 
health  and  spirits. 

Sometimes  I  had  sensations  of  faintness  and  exhaustion  for 
which  I  could  not  account.  Looking  into  my  glass  in  the 
morning,  I  saw  that  my  nose  was  becoming  pinched,  my 
cheeks  thin,  and  my  whole  face  not  merely  pale,  but  grey. 

Alma  saw  these  changes  in  my  appearance,  and  in  the  over- 
sweet  tones  of  her  succulent  voice  she  constantly  offered  me 
her  sympathy.  I  always  declined  it,  protesting  that  I  was 
perfectly  well,  but  none  the  less  I  shrank  within  myself  and 
became  more  and  more  unhappy. 

So  fierce  a  strain  could  not  last  very  long,  and  the  climax 
came  about  three  weeks  after  my  husband  had  left  for  London. 

I  was  rising  from  breakfast  with  Alma  and  her  mother 
when  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  giddiness,  and,  after  stag- 
gering for  a  moment,  I  fainted  right  away. 

On  recovering  consciousness  I  found  myself  stretched  out 
on  the  floor  with  Alma  and  her  mother  leaning  over  me. 

Never  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life  shall  I  forget  the  look  in 
Alma 's  eyes  as  I  opened  my  own.  With  her  upper  lip  sucked 
in  and  her  lower  one  slightly  set  forward  she  was  giving  her 
mother  a  quick  side-glance  of  evil  triumph. 

I  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion.  I  thought  I  might 
have  been  speaking  as  I  was  coming  to,  mentioning  a  name 
perhaps,  out  of  that  dim  and  sacred  chamber  of  the  unconscioug 
soul  into  which  God  alone  should  see.  I  noticed,  too,  that 
my  bodice  had  been  unhooked  at  the  back  so  as  to  leave  it 
loose  over  my  bosom. 

As  soon  as  Alma  saw  that  my  eyes  were  open,  glie  put  her 
arm  under  my  head  and  began  to  pour  out  a  flood  of  honeyed 
words  into  my  ears. 

x 


322  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"My  dear,  sweet  darling,"  she  said,  "you  scared  us  to 
death.  We  must  send  for  a  doctor  immediately — your  own 
doctor,  you  know." 

I  tried  to  say  there  was  no  necessity,  but  she  would  not 
listen. 

"Such  a  seizure  may  be  of  no  consequence,  my  love.  I 
trust  it  isn't.  But  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  a  serious 
matter,  and  it  is  my  duty,  dearest,  my  duty  to  your  husband, 
to  discover  the  cause  of  it. ' ' 

I  knew  quite  well  what  Alma  was  thinking  of,  yet  I  could 
not  say  more  without  strengthening  her  suspicions,  so  I  asked 
for  Price,  who  helped  me  up  to  my  room,  where  I  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  while  she  gave  me  brandy  and  other  restora- 
tives. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  I  needed  no  doctor  to 
say  what  had  befallen  me.  It  was  something  more  stupendous 
for  me  than  the  removal  of  mountains  or  the  stopping  of  the 
everlasting  coming  and  going  of  the  sea. 

The  greatest  of  the  mysteries  of  womanhood,  the  most 
sacred,  the  most  divine,  the  mighty  mystery  of  a  new  life 
had  come  to  me  as  it  comes  to  other  women.  Yet  how  had 
it  come?  Like  a  lowering  thunderstorm.. 

That  golden  hour  of  her  sex,  which  ought  to  be  the  sweetest 
and  most  joyful  in  a  woman's  life — the  hour  when  she  goes 
with  a  proud  and  swelling  heart  to  the  one  she  loves,  the  one 
who  loves  her,  and  with  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  her 
face  hidden  in  his  breast  whispers  her  great  new  secret,  and  he 
clasps  her  more  fondly  than  ever  to  his  heart,  because  another 
and  closer  union  has  bound  them  together — that  golden  hour 
had  come  to  me,  and  there  was  none  to  share  it. 

0  God!  0  God!  How  proudly  I  had  been  holding  up 
my  head!  How  I  had  been  trampling  on  the  conventions  of 
morality,  the  canons  of  law,  and  even  the  sacraments  of 
religion,  thinking  Nature,  which  had  made  our  hearts  what 
they  are,  did  not  mean  a  woman  to  be  ashamed  of  her  purest 
instincts ! 

And  now  Nature  herself  had  risen  up  to  condemn  me, 
and  before  long  the  whole  world  would  be  joining  in  her 
cry. 

If  Martin  had  been  there  at  that  moment  I  do  not  think  I 
should  have  cared  what  people  might  think  or  say  of  a  woman 
in  my  condition.  But  he  was  separated  from  me  by  this  time 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  323 

by  thousands  of  miles  of  sea,  and  was  going  deeper  and  deeper 
even'  day  into  the  dark  Antarctic  night. 

How  weak  I  felt,  how  little,  how  helpless!  Never  for  a 
moment  did  I  blame  Martin.  But  I  was  alone  with  my  respon- 
sibility, I  was  still  living  in  my  husband's  house,  and — worst 
of  all — another  woman  knew  my  secret. 

SEVENTY-FOURTH   CHAPTER 

EAKLY  next  day  Doctor  Conrad  came  to  see  me.  I  thought  it 
significant  that  he  came  in  my  father's  big  motor-car — a  car 
of  great  speed  and  power. 

I  was  in  my  dressing-gown  before  the  fire  in  the  boudoir, 
and  at  the  first  glance  of  his  cheerful  face  under  his  iron-grey 
head  I  knew  what  Alma  had  said  in  the  letter  which  had 
summoned  him. 

In  his  soft  voice  he  asked  me  a  few  questions,  and  though 
I  could  have  wished  to  conceal  the  truth  I  dared  not.  I  noticed 
that  his  face  brightened  at  each  of  my  replies,  and  at  the  end 
of  them  he  said: 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at.  We  shall  be  better 
than  ever  by-and-by." 

Then  in  his  sweet  and  delicate  way  (as  if  he  were  saying 
something  that  would  be  very  grateful)  he  told  me  what  I 
knew  already,  and  I  listened  with  my  head  down  and  my 
face  towards  the  fire. 

He  must  have  been  disappointed  at  the  sad  way  I  received 
his  news,  for  he  proceeded  to  talk  of  my  general  health,  saying 
the  great  thing  in  such  a  case  as  mine  was  to  be  cheerful,  to 
keep  a  good  heart,  and  to  look  hopefully  to  the  future. 

"You  must  have  pleasant  surroundings  and  the  society  of 
agreeable  people — old  friends,  old  schoolfellows,  familiar  and 
happy  faces." 

I  said  "Yes"  and  "Yes,"  knowing  only  too  well  how 
impossible  it  all  was;  and  then  his  talk  turned  on  general 
topics — my  father,  whose  condition  made  his  face  very  grave, 
and  then  his  wife,  Christian  Ann,  whose  name  caused  his 
gentle  old  eyes  to  gleam  with  sunshine. 

She  had  charged  him  with  a  message  to  me. 

"Tell  her,"  she  had  said,  "I  shall  never  forget  what  she 
did  for  me  in  the  autumn,  and  whiles  and  whiles  I'm  thanking 
God  for  her." 

That  cut  me  to  the  quick,  but  I  was  nearly  torn  to  pieces 
by  what  came  next. 


324  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Christian  Ann  told  me  to  say  too  that  Sunny  Lodge  is 
longing  for  you.  'She's  a  great  lady  now,'  said  she,  'but 
maybe  great  ladies  have  their  troubles  same  as  ourselves, 
poor  things,  and  if  she  ever  wants  to  rest  her  sweet  head 
in  a  poor  woman's  bed,  Mary  O'Neill's  little  room  is  always 
waiting  for  her. '  ' ' 

' '  God  bless  her ! "  I  said — it  was  all  I  could  say — and  then, 
to  my  great  relief,  he  talked  on  other  subjects. 

The  one  thing  I  was  afraid  of  was  that  he  might  speak  of 
Martin.  Heaven  alone,  which  looks  into  the  deep  places  of 
a  woman's  heart  in  her  hour  of  sorest  trial,  knows  why  I  was 
in  such  dread  that  he  might  do  so,  but  sure  I  am  that  if  he 
had  mentioned  Martin  at  that  moment  I  should  have  screamed. 

When  he  rose  to  go  he  repeated  his  warnings. 

"You'll  remember  what  I  said  about  being  bright  and 
cheerful?" 

"I'll  try." 

"And  keeping  happy  and  agreeable  faces  about  you?" 

"Ye-s." 

Hardly  had  he  left  the  room  when  Alma  came  sweeping  into 
it,  full  of  her  warmest  and  insineerest  congratulations. 

' '  There ! ' '  she  cried,  with  all  the  bitter  honey  of  her  tongue. 
' '  Wasn  't  I  right  in  sending  for  the  doctor  ?  Such  news,  too ! 
Oh,  happy,  happy  you!  But  I  must  not  keep  you  now, 
dearest.  You'll  be  just  crazy  to  write  to  your  husband  and 
tell  him  all  about  it." 

Alma's  mother  was  the  next  to  visit  me.  The  comfortable 
old  soul,  redolent  of  perfume  and  glittering  with  diamonds, 
began  by  congratulating  herself  on  her  perspicacity. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "When  I  saw  as  how  you  were  so 
and  so,  I  said  to  Alma  as  I  was  sure  you  were  that  way. 
'Impossible,'  said  Ahna,  but  it's  us  married  women  to  know, 
isn't  it?" 

After  that,  and  some  homely  counsel  out  of  her  own  expe- 
rience— to  take  my  breakfast  in  bed  in  future,  avoiding  tea, 
&c., — she  told  me  how  fortunate  I  was  to  have  Ahna  in  the 
house  at  such  a  moment. 

"The  doctor  says  you're  to  be  kept  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  she's  such  a  happy  heart,  is  Ahna.  So  crazy  about  you 
too!  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  she's  actually  talking  of 
staying  with  you  until  the  December  sailing,  at  all  events." 

The  prospect  of  having  Alma  two  months  longer,  to  probe 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  325 

my  secret  soul  as  with  a  red-hot  iron,  seemed  enough  to 
destroy  me,  but  my  martyrdom  had  only  begun. 

Next  day,  Aunt  Bridget  came,  and  the  bright  glitter  of  the 
usually  cold  grey  eyes  behind  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles 
told  me  at  a  glance  that  her  visit  was  not  an  unselfish  one. 

"There  now,"  she  said,  "you've  got  to  thank  me  for  this. 
Didn't  I  give  you  good  advice  when  I  told  you  to  be  a  little 
blind  ?  It 's  the  only  way  with  husbands.  When  Conrad  came 
home  with  the  news  I  said,  'Betsy,  I  must  get  away  to  the 
poor  girl  straight.'  To  be  sure  I  had  enough  on  my  hands 
already,  but  I  couldn  't  leave  you  to  strangers,  could  I  ?  " 

Hearing  no  response  to  this  question,  Aunt  Bridget  went 
on  to  say  that  what  was  coming  would  be  a  bond  between  me 
and  my  husband. 

' '  It  always  is.  It  was  in  my  case,  anyway.  The  old  colonel 
didn't  behave  very  well  after  our  marriage,  and  times  and 
times  I  was  telling  myself  I  had  made  a  rue  bargain;  but 
when  Betsy  came  I  thought,  'I  might  have  done  better,  but 
I  might  have  done  worse,  and  he 's  the  father  of  my  offspring, 
anyway.'  ' 

Hearing  no  response  to  this  either,  Aunt  Bridget  went 
on  to  talk  of  Alma  and  her  mother.  Was  not  this  the  woman 
I  suspected  with  my  husband — the  young  one  with  the  big 
eyes  and  ' '  the  quality  toss  with  her  ? ' '  Then  why  did  I  have 
a  person  like  that  about  the  house? 

"If  you  need  bright  and  cheerful  company,  what's  amiss 
with  your  aunt  and  your  first  cousin  ?  Some  people  are  selfish, 
but  I  thank  the  saints  I  don't  know  what  selfishness  is.  I'm 
willing  to  do  for  you  what  I  did  for  your  poor  mother,  and  I 
can't  say  more  than  that,  can  I?" 

I  must  have  made  some  kind  of  response,  for  Aunt  Bridget 
went  on  to  say  it  might  be  a  sacrifice,  but  then  she  wouldn't 
be  sorry  to  leave  the  Big  House  either. 

"I'm  twenty  years  there,  and  now  I'm  to  be  a  servant  to 
my  own  stepchild.  Dear  heart  knows  if  I  can  bear  it  much 
longer.  The  way  that  Nessy  is  carrying  on  with  your  father 
is  something  shocking.  I  do  believe  she'll  marry  the  man 
some  day." 

To  escape  from  a  painful  topic  I  asked  after  my  father's 
health. 

"Worse  and  worse,  but  Conrad's  news  was  like  laughing- 
gas  to  the  man.  He  would  have  come  with  me  to-day,  but 
the  doctor  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He'll  come  soon  though,  and 


326  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

meantime  he's  talking  and  talking  about  a  great  entertain- 
ment. ' ' 

"Entertainment?" 

"To  celebrate  the  forthcoming  event,  of  course,  though 
nobody  is  to  know  that  except  ourselves,  it  seems.  Just  a 
house-warming  in  honour  of  your  coming  home  after  your 
marriage — that's  all  it's  to  be  on  the  outside,  anyway." 

I  made  some  cry  of  pain,  and  Aunt  Bridget  said: 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say — why  doesn't  he 
wait?  I'll  tell  you  why  if  you'll  promise  not  to  whisper  a 
word  to  any  one.  Your  father  is  a  sick  man,  my  dear.  Let  him 
say  what  he  likes  when  Conrad  talks  about  cancer,  he  knows 
Death's  hand  is  over  him.  And  thinking  it  may  fall  before 
your  time  has  come,  he  wants  to  take  time  by  the  forelock  and 
see  a  sort  of  fulfilment  of  the  hope  of  his  life — and  you  know 
what  that  is." 

It  was  terrible.  The  position  in  which  I  stood  towards  my 
father  was  now  so  tragic  that  (wicked  as  it  was)  I  prayed  with 
all  my  heart  that  I  might  never  look  upon  his  face  again. 

I  was  compelled  to  do  so.  Three  days  after  Aunt  Bridget 's 
visit  my  father  came  to  see  me.  The  day  was  fine  and  I 
was  walking  on  the  lawn  when  his  big  car  came  rolling  up  the 
drive. 

I  was  shocked  to  see  the  change  in  him.  His  face  was 
ghastly  white,  his  lips  were  blue,  his  massive  and  powerful 
head  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  his  shoulders,  and  his  limbs 
were  so  thin  that  his  clothes  seemed  to  hang  on  them;  but 
the  stern  mouth  was  there  still,  and  so  was  the  masterful  lift 
of  the  eyebrows. 

Coming  over  to  meet  me  with  an  uncertain  step,  he  said: 

"Old  Conrad  was  for  keeping  me  in  bed,  but  I  couldn't 
take  rest  without  putting  a  sight  on  you." 

After  that,  and  some  plain  speech  out  of  the  primitive  man 
he  always  was  and  will  be  (about  it's  being  good  for  a  woman 
to  have  children  because  it  saved  her  from  "losing  her 
stomach"  over  imaginary  grievances),  he  led  me,  with  the 
same  half-contemptuous  tenderness  which  he  used  to  show 
to  my  mother,  back  to  the  house  and  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

Alma  and  her  mother  were  there,  the  one  writing  at  a  desk, 
the  other  knitting  on  the  sofa,  and  they  rose  as  my  father 
entered,  but  he  waved  them  back  to  their  places. 

"Set  down,  ma'am.     Take  your  seat,  mother.     I'm  only 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  327 

here  for  a  minute  to  talk  to  my  gel  about  her  great  recep- 
tion." 

"Reception?"  said  Alma. 

"Hasn't  she  told  you  about  it?"  he  said,  and  being 
answered  that  I  had  not,  he  gave  a  rough  outline  of  his  project, 
whereupon  Alma,  whose  former  attitude  towards  my  father 
had  changed  to  one  of  flattery  and  subservience,  lifted  her 
hands  and  cried: 

"How  splendid!  Such  an  inspiration!  Only  think,  my 
love,  you  were  to  be  kept  bright  and  cheerful,  and  what 
could  be  better  for  that  purpose?" 

In  the  torment  of  my  soul  I  urged  one  objection  after 
another — it  would  be  expensive,  we  could  not  afford  it. 

"Who  asks  you  to  afford  it?     It's  my  affair,  isn't  it?"' 
said  my  father. 

I  was  unwell,  and  therefore  unable  to  undertake  the  hard 
work  of  such  an  entertainment — but  that  was  the  worst  of 
excuses,  for  Alma  jumped  in  with  an  offer  of  assistance. 

"My  dearest  child,"  she  said,  "you  know  how  happy  I 
shall  be  to  help  you.  In  fact,  I  '11  do  all  the  work  and  you  shall 
have  all  the  glory. ' ' 

"There  you  are,  then,"  cried  my  father,  slapping  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  then,  turning  to  Alma,  he  told  her  to  set 
to  work  without  a  day's  delay. 

"Let  everything  be  done  correct  even  if  it  costs  me  a  bit 
of  money." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  rael  big  thing,  ma'am,  such  as  nobody  has  ever  seen 
before. ' ' 

"Yes  indeed,  sir." 

"Ask  all  the  big  people  on  the  island — Nessy  MacLeod 
shall  send  you  a  list  of  them." 

"I  will,  sir." 

"That'll  do  for  the  present — I  guess  I  must  be  going  now, 
or  old  Conrad  will  be  agate  of  me.  So  long,  gel,  so  long." 

I  was  silenced,  I  was  helpless,  I  was  ashamed. 

I  did  not  know  then,  what  now  I  know,  that,  besides  the 
desire  of  celebrating  the  forthcoming  birth  of  an  heir,  my 
father  had  another  and  still  more  secret  object — that  of 
throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  of  his  advocates,  bankers,  and  insular 
councillors,  who  (having  expected  him  to  make  money  for 
them  by  magic)  were  beginning  to  whisper  that  all  was  not 
well  with  his  financial  schemes. 


328  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  did  not  know  then,  what  now  I  know,  that  my  father  was 
at  that  moment  the  most  tragic  figure  in  Elian  except  myself, 
and  that,  shattered  in  health  and  shaken  in  fortune,  he  was 
indulging  in  this  wild  extravagance  equally  to  assert  his 
solvency  and  to  gratify  his  lifelong  passion  under  the  very 
wing  of  Death. 

But  oh,  my  wild  woe,  my  frantic  prayers!  It  was  almost 
as  if  Satan  himself  were  torturing  me. 

The  one  terror  of  the  next  few  days  was  that  my  husband 
might  return  home,  for  I  knew  that  at  the  first  moment 
of  his  arrival  the  whole  world  of  make-believe  which  my 
father  and  Alma  were  setting  up  around  me  would  tumble 
about  my  head  like  a  pack  of  cards. 

He  did  not  come,  but  he  wrote.  After  saying  that  his  politi- 
cal duties  would  keep  him  in  London  a  little  longer,  he  said: 

"I  hear  that  your  father  is  getting  you  to  give  a  great 
reception  in  honour  of  our  home-coming.  But  why  now, 
instead  of  three  months  ago?  Do  you  know  the  reason?" 

As  I  read  these  last  words  I  felt  an  icy  numbness  creeping 
up  from  my  feet  to  my  heart.  My  position  was  becoming 
intolerable.  The  conviction  was  being  forced  upon  me  that 
I  had  no  right  in  my  husband's  house. 

It  made  no  difference  that  my  husband's  house  was  mine 
also,  in  the  sense  that  it  could  not  exist  without  me — I  had 
no  right  to  be  there. 

It  made  no  difference  that  my  marriage  had  been  no  mar- 
riage— I  had  no  right  to  be  there. 

It  made  no  difference  that  the  man  I  had  married  was  an 
utterly  bad  husband — I  had  no  right  to  be  there. 

It  made  no  difference  that  I  was  not  really  an  adulterous 
wife — I  had  no  right  to  be  there. 

Meanwhile  Price,  my  maid,  but  my  only  real  friend  in 
Castle  Kaa,  with  the  liberty  I  allowed  her,  was  unconsciously 
increasing  my  torture.  Every  night  as  she  combed  out  my 
hair  she  gave  me  her  opinion  of  my  attitude  towards  Alma, 
and  one  night  she  said: 

' '  Didn  't  I  tell  you  she  was  only  watching  ,you,  my  lady  1 
The  nasty-minded  thing  is  making  mischief  with  his  lordship. 
She's  writing  to  him  every  day.  .  .  .  How  do  I  know?  Oh, 
I  don't  keep  my  eyes  and  my  ears  open  downstairs  for  nothing. 
You'll  have  no  peace  of  your  life,  my  lady,  until  you  turn 
that  woman  out  of  the  house." 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  329 

Then  in  a  fit  of  despair,  hardly  knowing  what  I  was  doing, 
I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands  and  said : 

"I  had  better  turn  myself  out  instead,  perhaps." 

The  combing  of  my  hair  suddenly  stopped,  and  at  the 
next  moment  I  heard  Price  saying  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to 
come  from  a  long  way  off: 

''Goodness  gracious  me!     Is  it  like  that,  my  lady?" 

SEVENTY-FIFTH  CHAPTER 

ALMA  was  as  good  as  her  word. 

She  did  everything  without  consulting  me — fixed  the  date 
of  the  reception  for  a  month  after  the  day  of  my  father's 
visit,  and  sent  out  invitations  to  all  "the  insular  gentry" 
included  in  the  lists  which  came  from  Nessy  MacLeod  in  her 
stiff  and  formal  handwriting. 

These  lists  came  morning  after  morning,  until  the  invita- 
tions issued  reached  the  grand  total  of  five  hundred. 

As  the  rooms  of  the  Castle  were  not  large  enough  to  ac- 
commodate so  many  guests,  Alma  proposed  to  erect  a  tem- 
porary pavilion.  My  father  agreed,  and  within  a  week  hun- 
dreds of  workmen  from  Blackwater  were  setting  up  a  vast 
wooden  structure,  in  the  form  of  the  Colosseum,  on  the  head- 
lands beyond  the  garden  where  Martin  and  I  had  walked  to- 
gether. 

While  the  work  went  on  my  father's  feverish  pride  seemed 
to  increase.  I  heard  of  messages  to  Alma  saying  that  no 
money  was  to  be  spared.  The  reception  was  to  surpass  in 
grandeur  any  fete  ever  held  in  Elian.  Not  knowing  what 
high  stakes  my  father  was  playing  for,  I  was  frightened  by 
this  extravagance,  and  from  that  cause  alone  I  wished  to 
escape  from  the  sight  of  it. 

I  could  not  escape. 

I  felt  sure  that  Alma  hated  me  with  an  implacable  hatred, 
and  that  she  was  trying  to  drive  me  away,  thinking  that 
would  be  the  easiest  means  to  gain  her  own  ends.  For  this 
reason,  among  others,  the  woman  in  me  would  not  let  me  fly, 
so  I  remained  and  went  through  a  purgatory  of  suffering. 

Price,  too,  who  had  reconciled  herself  to  my  revelation,  was 
always  urging  me  to  remain,  saying: 

"Why  should  you  go,  my  lady?  You  are  your  husband's 
wife,  aren't  you?  Fight  it  out,  I  say.  Ladies  do  so  every 
day.  Why  shouldn't  you?" 

Before  long  the  whole  island  seemed  to  be  astir  about  our 


330  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

reception.  Every  day  the  insular  newspapers  devoted 
columns  to  the  event,  giving  elaborate  accounts  of  what  limit- 
less wealth  could  accomplish  for  a  single  night's  entertain- 
ment. In  these  descriptions  there  was  much  eulogy  of  my 
father  as  "the  uncrowned  king  of  Elian,"  as  well  as  praise 
of  Alma,  who  was  ''displaying  such  daring  originality,"  but 
little  or  no  mention  of  myself. 

Nevertheless  everybody  seemed  to  understand  the  inner 
meaning  of  the  forthcoming  reception,  and  in  the  primitive 
candour  of  our  insular  manners  some  of  the  visits  I  received 
were  painfully  embarrassing. 

One  of  the  first  to  come  was  my  father's  advocate,  Mr. 
Curphy,  who  smiled  his  usual  bland  smile  and  combed  his 
long  beard  while  he  thanked  me  for  acting  on  his  advice  not 
to  allow  a  fit  of  pique  to  break  up  a  marriage  which  was  so 
suitable  from  points  of  property  and  position. 

"How  happy  your  father  must  be  to  see  the  fulfilment  of 
his  hopes,"  he  said.  "Just  when  his  health  is  failing  him, 
too!  How  good!  How  gratifying!" 

The  next  to  come  was  the  Bishop,  who,  smooth  and  suave 
as  ever,  congratulated  me  on  putting  aside  all  thoughts  of 
divorce,  so  that  the  object  of  my  marriage  might  be  fulfilled 
and  a  good  Catholic  become  the  heir  of  Castle  Raa. 

More  delicate,  but  also  more  distressing,  was  a  letter  from 
Father  Dan,  saying  he  had  been  forbidden  my  husband's 
house  and  therefore  could  not  visit  me,  but  having  heard  an 
angel's  whisper  of  the  sweet  joy  that  was  coming  to  me, 
he  prayed  the  Lord  and  His  Holy  Mother  to  carry  me  safely 
through. 

"I  have  said  a  rosary  for  you  every  day  since  you  were 
here,  my  dear  child,  that  you  might  be  saved  from  a  great 
temptation.  And  now  I  know  you  have  been,  and  the 
sacrament  of  your  holy  marriage  has  fulfilled  its  mission,  as 
I  always  knew  it  would.  So  God  bless  you,  my  daughter, 
and  keep  you  pure  and  fit  for  eternal  union  with  that  blessed 
saint,  your  mother,  whom  the  Lord  has  made  His  own. ' ' 

More  than  ever  after  this  letter  I  felt  that  I  must  fly  from 
my  husband's  house,  but,  thinking  of  Alma,  my  wounded 
pride,  my  outraged  vanity  (as  I  say,  the  woman  in  me), 
would  not  let  me  go. 

Three  weeks  passed. 

The  pavilion  had  been  built  and  was  being  hung  with 
gaily  painted  bannerets  to  give  the  effect  of  the  Colosseum  as 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  331 

seen  at  sunset.  A  covered  corridor  connecting  the  theatre 
with  the  house  was  being  lined  with  immense  hydrangeas 
and  lit  from  the  roof  by  lamps  that  resembled  stars. 

A  few  days  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  event  Alma,  who 
had  been  too  much  occupied  to  see  me  every  day  in  the 
boudoir  to  which  I  confined  myself,  came  up  to  give  me 
my  instructions. 

The  entertainment  was  to  begin  at  ten  o'clock.  I  was  to  be 
dressed  as  Cleopatra  and  to  receive  my  guests  in  the  drawing- 
room.  At  the  sound  of  a  fanfare  of  trumpets  I  was  to  go  into 
the  theatre  preceded  by  a  line  of  pages,  and  accompanied  by 
my  husband.  After  we  had  taken  our  places  in  a  private 
box  a  great  ballet,  brought  specially  from  a  London  music- 
hall,  was  to  give  a  performance  lasting  until  midnight.  Then 
there  was  to  be  a  cotillon,  led  by  Alma  herself  with  my  hus- 
band, and  after  supper  the  dancing  was  to  be  resumed  and 
kept  up  until  sunrise,  when  a  basketful  of  butterflies  and 
doves  (sent  from  the  South  of  France)  were  to  be  liberated 
from  cages,  and  to  rise  in  a  multicoloured  cloud  through  the 
sunlit  space. 

I  was  sick  and  ashamed  when  I  thought  of  this  vain  and 
gaudy  scene  and  the  object  which  I  supposed  it  was  intended 
to  serve. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  I  wrote  to  my  father,  concealing 
the  real  cause  of  my  suffering,  but  telling  him  he  could  not 
possibly  be  aware  of  what  was  being  done  in  his  name  and 
with  his  money,  and  begging  him  to  put  an  end  to  the  enter- 
tainment altogether. 

The  only  answer  I  received  was  a  visit  from  Nessy 
MacLeod.  I  can  see  her  still  as  she  came  into  my  room,  the 
tall  gaunt  figure  with  red  hair  and  irregular  features. 

"Cousin  Mary,"  she  said,  seating  herself  stiffly  on  the 
only  stiff-backed  chair,  and  speaking  in  an  impassive  tone, 
"your  letter  has  been  received,  but  your  father  has  not 
seen  it,  his  health  being  such  as  makes  it  highly  undesirable 
that  he  should  be  disturbed  by  unnecessary  worries. ' ' 

I  answered  with  some  warmth  that  my  letter  had  not  been 
unnecessary,  but  urgent  and  important,  and  if  she  persisted 
in  withholding  it  from  my  father  I  should  deliver  it  myself. 

"Cousin  Mary,"  said  Nessy,  "I  know  perfectly  what  your 
letter  is,  having  opened  and  read  it,  and  while  I  am  as  little 
as  yourself  in  sympathy  with  what  is  going  on  here,  I  hap- 
pen to  know  that  your  father  has  set  his  heart  on  this  enter- 


332  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

tainment,  and  therefore  I  do  not  choose  that  it  shall  be 
put  off." 

I  replied  hotly  that  in  opening  my  letter  to  my  father 
she  had  taken  an  unwarrantable  liberty,  and  then  (losing 
myself  a  little)  I  asked  her  by  what  right  did  she,  who  had 
entered  my  father's  house  as  a  dependent,  dare  to  keep  his 
daughter's  letter  from  him. 

''Cousin  Mary,"  said  Nesey,  in  the  same  impassive  tone, 
"you  were  always  self-willed,  selfish,  and  most  insulting  as 
a  child,  and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  neither  marriage  nor 
education  at  a  convent  has  chastened  your  ungovernable 
temper.  But  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  choose  that  you 
shall  injure  your  father's  health  by  disturbing  his  plans,  and 
you  shall  certainly  not  do  so." 

"Then  take  care,"  I  answered,  "that  in  protecting  my 
father's  health  you  do  not  destroy  it  altogether." 

In  spite  of  her  cold  and  savourless  nature,  she  understood 
my  meaning,  for  after  a  moment  of  silence  she  said: 

"Cousin  Mary,  you  may  do  exactly  as  you  please.  Your 
conduct  in  the  future,  whatever  it  may  be,  will  be  no  affair 
of  mine,  and  I  shall  not  consider  that  I  am  in  any  way 
responsible  for  it." 

At  last  I  began  to  receive  anonymous  letters.  They  came 
from  various  parts  of  Elian  and  appeared  to  be  in  different 
handwritings.  Some  of  them  advised  me  to  fly  from  the 
island,  and  others  enclosed  a  list  of  steamers'  sailings. 

Only  a  woman  who  has  been  the  victim  of  this  species  of 
cowardly  torture  can  have  any  idea  of  the  shame  of  it,  and 
again  and  again  I  asked  myself  if  I  ought  not  to  escape  from 
my  husband's  house  before  he  returned. 

But  Price  seemed  to  find  a  secret  joy  in  the  anonymous 
letters,  saying  she  believed  she  knew  the  source  of  them; 
and  one  evening  towards  the  end,  she  came  running  into  my 
room  with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  a  look  of  triumph  in  her 
face,  and  an  unopened  letter  in  her  hand. 

"There!"  she  said.  "It's  all  up  with  Madame  now. 
You've  got  the  game  in  your  own  hands,  my  lady,  and  can 
send  them  all  packing." 

The  letter  was  addressed  to  my  husband  in  London.  Price 
had  seized  the  arm  of  Alma's  maid  in  the  act  of  posting  it, 
and  under  threat  of  the  law  (not  to  speak  of  instant  personal 
chastisement)  the  girl  had  confessed  that  both  this  letter 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  333 

and  others  had  been  written  by  our  housekeeper  under  the 
inspiration  of  her  mistress. 

Without  any  compunction  Price  broke  the  seal  of  the 
intercepted  letter  and  read  it  aloud  to  me.  It  was  a  shock- 
ing thing,  accusing  me  with  Martin,  and  taunting  my  hus- 
band with  the  falseness  of  the  forthcoming  entertainment. 

Feeling  too  degraded  to  speak,  I  took  the  letter  in  silence 
out  of  my  maid 's  hands,  and  while  I  was  in  the  act  of  locking 
it  away  in  a  drawer  Alma  came  up  with  a  telegram  from  my 
husband,  saying  he  was  leaving  London  by  the  early  train 
the  following  morning  and  would  arrive  at  Blackwater  at 
half-past  three  in  the  afternoon. 

"Dear  old  Jimmy!"  she  said,  "what  a  surprise  you  have 
in  store  for  him!  But  of  course  you've  told  him  already, 
haven't  you?  ...  No?  Ah,  I  see,  you've  been  saving  it  all 
up  to  tell  him  face  to  face.  Oh,  happy,  happy  you!" 

It  was  too  late  to  leave  now.  The  hour  of  my  trial  had 
come.  There  was  no  possibility  of  escape.  It  was  just  as  if 
Satan  had  been  holding  me  in  the  net  of  my  sin,  so  that  I 
could  not  fly  away. 

At  three  o'clock  next  day  (which  was  the  day  before  the 
day  fixed  for  the  reception)  I  heard  the  motor-car  going  off 
to  meet  my  husband  at  Blaekwater.  At  four  o  'clock  I  heard  it 
return.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  I  heard  my  husband's 
voice  in  the  hall.  I  thought  he  would  come  up  to  me  directly, 
but  he  did  not  do  so,  and  I  did  not  attempt  to  go  down. 
When,  after  a  while,  I  asked  what  had  become  of  him,  I  was 
told  that  he  was  in  the  library  with  Alma,  and  that  they 
were  alone. 

Two  hours  passed. 

To  justify  and  fortify  myself  I  thought  how  badly  my  hus- 
band had  behaved  to  me.  I  remembered  that  he  had  married 
me  from  the  most  mercenary  motives ;  that  he  had  paid  off  his 
mistress  with  the  money  that  came  through  me;  that  he  had 
killed  by  cruelty  the  efforts  I  had  made  to  love  him ;  that  he 
had  humiliated  me  by  gross  infidelities  committed  on  my 
honeymoon.  I  recalled  the  scenes  in  Rome,  the  scenes  in 
Paris,  and  the  insults  I  had  received  under  my  own  roof. 

It  was  all  in  vain.  Whether  God  means  it  that  the  woman's 
fault  in  breaking  her  marriage  vows  (whatever  her  sufferings 
and  excuse)  shall  be  greater  than  that  of  the  man  I  do  not 
know.  I  only  know  that  I  was  trembling  like  a  prisoner  before 
her  judge  when,  being  dressed  for  dinner  and  waiting  for 


334  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

the  sound  of  the  bell,  I  heard  my  husband's  footsteps  approach 
my  door. 

I  was  standing  by  the  fire  at  that  moment,  and  I  held  on  to 
the  mantelpiece  as  my  husband  came  into  the  room. 

SEVENTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

HE  was  very  pale.  The  look  of  hardness,  almost  of  brutality, 
which  pierced  his  manner  at  normal  moments  had  deepened, 
and  I  could  see  at  a  glance  that  he  was  nervous.  His  monocle 
dropped  of  itself  from  his  slow  grey  eyes,  and  the  white  fat 
fingers  which  replaced  it  trembled. 

Without  shaking  hands  or  offering  any  other  sort  of  saluta- 
tion he  plunged  immediately  into  the  matter  that  was  upper- 
most in  his  mind. 

"I  am  still  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  affair  of  your 
father's,"  he  said.  "Of  course  I  know  what  it  is  supposed  to 
be — a  reception  in  honour  of  our  home-coming.  That  explana- 
tion may  or  may  not  be  sufficient  for  these  stupid  islanders, 
but  it's  rather  too  thin  for  me.  Can  you  tell  me  what  your 
father  means  by  it?" 

I  knew  he  knew  what  my  father  meant,  so  I  said,  trembling 
like  a  sheep  that  walks  up  to  a  barking  dog: 
' '  Hadn  't  you  better  ask  that  question  of  my  father  himself  ? ' ' 

' '  Perhaps  I  should  if  he  were  here,  but  he  isn  't,  so  I  ask  you. 
Your  father  is  a  strange  man.  There's  no  knowing  what 
crude  things  he  will  not  do  to  gratify  his  primitive  instincts. 
But  he  does  not  spend  five  or  ten  thousand  pounds  for  noth- 
ing. He  isn't  a  fool  exactly." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  I  could  not  help  it.  It  was  forced 
out  of  me. 

My  husband  flinched  and  looked  at  me.  Then  the  bully 
in  him,  which  always  lay  underneath,  came  uppermost. 

"Look  here,  Mary,"  he  said.  "I  came  for  an  explanation 
and  I  intend  to  have  one.  Your  father  may  give  this  affair 
what  gloss  he  pleases,  but  you  must  know  as  well  as  I  do 
what  rumour  and  report  are  saying,  so  we  might  as  well  speak 
plainly.  Is  it  the  fact  that  the  doctor  has  made  certain  state- 
ments about  your  own  condition,  and  that  your  father  is 
giving  this  entertainment  because  .  .  .  well,  because  he  is 
expecting  an  heir?" 

To  my  husband's  astonishment  I  answered: 

"Yee." 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  335 

"So  you  admit  it?  Then  perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough 
to  tell  me  how  that  condition  came  about  ? ' ' 

Knowing  he  needed  no  explanation,  I  made  no  answer. 

"Can't  you  speak?"  he  said. 

But  still  I  remained  silent. 

' '  You  know  what  our  relations  have  been  since  our  marriage, 
so  I  ask  you  again  how  does  that  condition  come  about?" 

I  was  now  trembling  more  than  ever,  but  a  kind  of  forced 
courage  came  to  me  and  I  said: 

"Why  do  you  ask?     You  seem  to  know  already." 

"I  know  what  anonymous  letters  have  told  me,  if  that's 
what  you  mean.  But  I'm  your  husband  and  have  a  right 
to  know  from  you.  How  does  your  condition  come  about, 
I  ask  you?" 

I  cannot  say  what  impulse  moved  me  at  that  moment 
unless  it  was  the  desire  to  make  a  clean  breast  and  an  end 
of  everytlrn?,  but,  stepping  to  my  desk,  I  took  out  of  a 
drawer  the  l^tT  which  Price  had  intercepted  and  threw  it 
on  the  table. 

He  took  it  up  and  read  it,  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  the 
contents  were  not  news,  and  then  asked  how  I  came  by  it. 

"It  was  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  a  woman  who  was  in 
the  act  of  posting  it,"  I  said.  "She  confessed  that  it  was 
one  of  a  number  of  such  letters  which  had  been  inspired,  if 
not  written,  by  your  friend  Alma." 

"My  friend  Alma!" 

"Yes,  your  friend  Alma." 

His  face  assumed  a  frightful  expression  and  he  said: 

"So  that's  how  it  is  to  be,  is  it?  In  spite  of  the  admission 
you  have  just  made  you  wish  to  imply  that  this"  (hoi diner  out 
the  letter)  "is  a  trumped-up  affair,  and  that  Alma  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  You're  going  to  brazen  it  out,  are  you,  and 
shelter  your  condition  under  your  position  as  a  married 
woman  ? ' ' 

I  was  so  taken  by  surprise  by  this  infamous  suggestion  that 
I  could  not  speak  to  deny  it,  and  my  husband  went  on  to  say : 

"But  it  doesn't  matter  a  rush  to  me  who  is  at  the  bottom 
of  the  accusation  contained  in  this  letter.  There's  only  one 
thing  of  any  consequence — is  it  true  ? ' ' 

My  head  was  reeling,  my  eyes  were  dim,  my  palms  were 
moist,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  throwing  myself  over  a  precipice, 
but  I  answered: 

"It  is  perfectly  true." 


336 

I  think  that  was  the  last  thing  he  expected.  After  a 
moment  he  said: 

' '  Then  you  have  broken  your  marriage  vows — is  that  it  ? " 

"Yes,  if  you  call  it  so." 

' '  Call  it  so  ?  Call  it  so  ?  Good  heavens,  what  do  you  call  it  ? " 

I  did  not  reply,  and  after  another  moment  he  said: 

"But  perhaps  you  wish  me  to  understand  that  this  man 
whom  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  invite  to  my  house  abused  my 
hospitality  and  betrayed  my  wife.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"No,"  I  said.  "He  observed  the  laws  of  hospitality  much 
better  than  you  did,  and  if  I  am  betrayed  I  betrayed  myself. ' ' 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  with  which  my  husband  re- 
ceived this  confession.  He  drew  himself  up  with  the  air  of 
an  injured  man  and  said: 

"What?  You  mean  that  you  yourself  .  .  .  deliberately 
.  .  .  Good  God!" 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  and  then  said  with  a  rush : 

"I  suppose  you've  not  forgotten  what  happened  at  the 
time  of  our  marriage  .  .  .  your  resistance  and  the  ridicu- 
lous compact  I  submitted  to?  Why  did  I  submit?  Because  I 
thought  your  innocence,  your  convent-bred  ideas,  and  your 
ignorance  of  the  first  conditions  of  matrimony.  .  .  .  But 
I've  been  fooled,  for  you  now  tell  me  .  .  .  after  all  my 
complacency  .  .  .  that  you  have  deliberately  ...  In  the 
name  of  God  do  you  know  what  you  are?  There's  only  one 
name  for  a  woman  who  does  what  you've  done.  Do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  what  that  name  is?" 

I  was  quivering  with  shame,  but  my  mind,  which  was  going 
at  lightning  speed,  was  thinking  of  London,  of  Cairo,  of 
Rome,  and  of  Paris. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  he  cried,  lifting  his  voice  in  his 
rage.  "Don't  you  understand  what  a  letter  like  this  is 
calling  you?" 

My  heart  choked.  But  the  thought  that  came  to  me — that, 
bad  as  his  own  life  had  been,  he  considered  he  had  a  right  to 
treat  me  in  this  way  because  he  was  a  man  and  I  was  a  woman 
— brought  strength  out  of  my  weakness,  so  that  when  he 
went  on  to  curse  my  Church  and  my  religion,  saying  this  was 
all  that  had  come  of  "the  mummery  of  my  masses,"  I  fired 
up  for  a  moment  and  said: 

"You  can  spare  yourself  these  blasphemies.     If  I  have 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  337 

done  wrong,  it  is  I,  and  not  my  Church,  that  is  to  blame 
for  it." 

"If  you  have  done  wrong!"  he  cried.  "Damn  it,  have 
you  lost  all  sense  of  a  woman's  duty  to  her  husband?  While 
you  have  been  married  to  me  and  I  have  been  fool  enough 
not  to  claim  you  as  a  wife  because  I  thought  you  were  only 
fit  company  for  the  saints  and  angels,  you  have  been  prosti- 
tuting yourself  to  this  blusterer,  this  ..." 

' '  That  is  a  lie, ' '  I  said,  stepping  up  to  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor.  "It's  true  that  I  am  married  to  you,  but  he  is  my 
real  husband  and  you  .  .  .  you  are  nothing  to  me  at  all." 

My  husband  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  mouth  agape. 
Then  he  began  to  laugh — loudly,  derisively,  mockingly. 

"Nothing  to  you,  am  I?  You  don't  mind  bearing  my 
name,  though,  and  when  your  time  comes  you'll  expect  it 
to  cover  your  disgrace." 

His  face  had  become  shockingly  distorted.  He  was  quivering 
with  fury. 

' '  That 's  not  the  worst,  either, ' '  he  cried.  "  It 's  not  enough 
that  you  should  tell  me  to  my  face  that  somebody  else  is 
your  real  husband,  but  you  must  shunt  your  spurious  offspring 
into  my  house.  Isn't  that  what  it  all  comes  to  ...  all  this 
damnable  fuss  of  your  father's  .  .  .  that  you  are  going  to 
palm  off  on  me  and  my  name  and  family  your  own  and  this 
man's  .  .  .  bastard?" 

And  with  the  last  word,  in  the  drunkenness  of  his  rage,  he 
lifted  his  arm  and  struck  me  with  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
the  cheek. 

The  physical  shock  was  fearful,  but  the  moral  infamy  was 
a  hundred-fold  worse.  I  can  truly  say  that  not  alone  for 
myself  did  I  suffer.  When  my  mind,  still  going  at  b'ghtning 
speed,  thought  of  Martin,  who  loved  me  so  tenderly,  I  felt 
crushed  by  my  husband's  blow  to  the  lowest  depths  of  shame. 

I  must  have  screamed,  though  I  did  not  know  it,  for  at  the 
next  moment  Price  was  in  the  room  and  I  saw  that  the  house- 
keeper (drawn  perhaps,  as  before,  by  my  husband's  loud 
voice)  was  on  the  landing  outside  the  door.  But  even  that  did 
not  serve  to  restrain  him. 

"No  matter,"  he  said.  "After  what  has  passed  you  may 
not  enjoy  to-morrow's  ceremony.  But  you  shall  go  through 
it!  By  heaven,  you  shall!  And  when  it  is  over,  I  shall 
have  something  to  say  to  your  father." 


338  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

And  with  that  he  swung  out  of  the  room  and  went  lunging 
down  the  stairs. 

I  was  still  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  the  blow 
from  my  husband's  hand  tingling  on  my  cheek,  when  Price, 
after  clashing  the  door  in  the  face  of  the  housekeeper,  said, 
with  her  black  eyes  ablaze: 

' '  Well,  if  ever  I  wanted  to  be  a  man  before  to-day ! ' ' 

News  of  the  scene  went  like  wildfire  through  the  house, 
and  Alma's  mother  came  to  comfort  me.  In  her  crude  and 
blundering  way  she  told  me  of  a  similar  insult  she  had  suffered 
at  the  hands  of  the  "bad  Lord  Raa, "  and  how  it  had  been 
the  real  reason  of  her  going  to  America. 

"Us  married  ladies  have  much  to  put  up  with.  But  cheer 
up,  dearie.  I  guess  you'll  have  gotten  over  it  by  to-morrow 
morning. ' ' 

\v  hen  she  was  gone  I  sat  down  before  the  fire.  I  did  not  cry. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  reached  a  depth  of  suffering  that  was  a 
thousand  fathoms  too  deep  for  tears.  I  do  not  think  I  wept 
again  for  many  months  afterwards,  and  then  it  was  a  great 
joy,  not  a  great  grief,  that  brought  me  a  burst  of  blessed  tears. 

But  I  could  hear  my  dear  good  Price  crying  behind  me,  and 
when  I  said: 

"Now  you  see  for  yourself  that  I  cannot  remain  in  this 
house  any  longer,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"I  must  go  at  once — to-night  if  possible." 

"You  shall.     Leave  everything  to  me,  my  lady." 

SEVENTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

THE  bell  rang,  but  of  course  I  did  not  go  down  to  dinner. 

As  soon  as  Price  had  gone  off  to  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments I  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of  my  door,  removed  my 
evening  gown,  and  began  to  dress  for  my  flight. 

My  brain  was  numb,  but  I  did  my  best  to  confront  the 
new  situation  that  was  before  me. 

Hitherto  I  had  been  occupied  with  the  problem  of  whether 
I  should  or  should  not  leave  my  husband's  house;  now  I 
had  to  settle  the  question  of  where  I  was  to  go  to. 

I  dared  not  think  of  home,  for  (Nessy  MacLeod  and  Aunt 
Bridget  apart)  the  house  of  my  father  was  the  last  place  I 
could  fly  to  at  a  moment  when  I  was  making  dust  and  ashes 
of  his  lifelong  expectations. 

Neither  dared  I  think  of  Sunny  Lodge,  although  I  remem- 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  339 

bered,  with  a  tug  of  tenderness,  Christian  Ann's  last  message 
about  Mary  O'Neill's  little  room  that  was  always  waiting  for 
me — for  I  thought  of  how  I  had  broken  my  pledge  to  her. 

The  only  place  I  could  think  of  was  that  which  Martin  had 
mentioned  when  he  wished  to  carry  me  away — London.  In 
the  mighty  world  of  London  I  might  hide  myself  from  obser- 
vation and  wait  until  Martin  returned  from  his  expedition. 

"Yes,  yes,  London,"  I  told  myself  in  my  breathless  excite- 
ment, little  knowing  what  London  meant. 

I  began  to  select  the  clothes  I  was  to  carry  with  me  and 
to  wear  on  my  journey.  They  must  be  plain,  for  I  had  to 
escape  from  a  house  in  which  unfriendly  eyes  would  be  watch- 
ing me.  They  must  be  durable,  for  during  my  time  of  waiting 
I  expected  to  be  poor. 

I  hunted  out  some  of  the  quaker-like  costumes  which  had 
been  made  for  me  before  my  marriage;  and  when  I  had  put 
them  on  I  saw  that  they  made  a  certain  deduction  from  my 
appearance,  but  that  did  not  matter  to  me  now — the  only  eyes 
I  wished  to  look  well  in  being  down  in  the  Antarctic  seas. 

Then  I  tried  to  think  of  practical  matters — how  I  was 
to  live  in  London  and  how,  in  particular,  I  was  to  meet  the 
situation  that  was  before  me.  Surely  never  did  a  more  help- 
less innocent  confront  such  a  serious  problem.  I  was  a  woman, 
and  for  more  than  a  year  I  had  been  a  wife,  but  I  had  no  more 
experience  of  the  hard  facts  of  material  existence  than  a  child. 

I  thought  first  of  the  bank-book  which  my  father  had  sent 
me  with  authority  to  draw  on  his  account.  But  it  was  then 
nine  o'clock,  the  banks  were  closed  for  the  day,  and  I  knew 
enough  of  the  world  to  see  that  if  I  attempted  to  cash  a 
cheque  in  the  morning  my  whereabouts  would  be  traced.  That 
must  never  happen,  I  must  hide  myself  from  everybody; 
therefore  my  bank-book  was  useless. 

"Quite  useless,"  I  thought,  throwing  it  aside  like  so  much 
waste  paper. 

I  thought  next  of  my  jewels.  But  there  I  encountered  a 
similar  difficulty.  The  jewels  which  were  really  mine,  having 
been  bought  by  myself,  had  been  gambled  away  by  my 
husband  at  Monte  Carlo.  What  remained  were  the  family 
jewels  which  had  come  to  me  as  Lady  Raa;  but  that  was  a 
name  I  was  never  more  to  bear,  a  person  I  was  never  more  to 
think  about,  so  I  could  not  permit  myself  to  take  anything 
that  belonged  to  her. 

The  only  thing  left  to  me  was  my  money.     I  had  always 


340  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

kept  a  good  deal  of  it  about  me,  although  the  only  use  I  had 
had  for  it  was  to  put  it  in  the  plate  at  church,  and  to  scatter 
it  with  foolish  prodigality  to  the  boys  who  tossed  somersaults 
behind  the  carriage  in  the  road. 

Now  I  found  it  all  over  my  room — in  my  purse,  in  various 
drawers,  and  on  the  toilet-tray  under  my  dressing-glass. 
Gathered  together  it  counted  up  to  twenty-eight  pounds. 
I  owed  four  pounds  to  Price,  and  having  set  them  aside,  I  savr 
that  I  had  twenty-four  pounds  left  in  notes,  gold,  and  silver. 

Being  in  the  literal  and  unconventional  sense  utterly  igno- 
rant of  the  value  of  sixpence,  I  thought  this  a  great  sum, 
amply  sufficient  for  all  my  needs,  or  at  least  until  I  secured 
employment — for  I  had  from  the  first  some  vague  idea  of 
earning  my  own  living. 

"Martin  would  like  that,"  I  told  myself,  lifting  my  head 
with  a  thrill  of  pride. 

Then  I  began  to  gather  up  the  treasures  which  were  inex- 
pressibly more  dear  to  me  than  all  my  other  possessions. 

One  of  them  was  a  little  miniature  of  my  mother  which 
Father  Dan  had  given  me  for  a  wedding-present  when  (as  I 
know  now)  he  would  rather  have  parted  with  his  heart's  blood. 

Another  was  a  pearl  rosary  which  the  Reverend  Mother  had 
dropped  over  my  arm  the  last  time  she  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead;  and  the  last  was  my  Martin's  misspelt  love-letter, 
which  was  more  precious  to  me  than  rubies. 

Not  for  worlds,  I  thought,  would  I  leave  these  behind  me, 
or  ever  part  with  them  under  any  circumstances. 

Several  times  while  I  was  busy  with  such  preparations, 
growing  more  and  more  nervous  every  moment,  Price  came 
on  tip-toe  and  tapped  softly  at  my  door. 

Once  it  was  to  bring  me  some  food  and  to  tell  me,  with 
many  winks  (for  the  good  soul  herself  was  trembling  with 
excitement),  that  everything  was  "as  right  as  ninepence. " 
I  should  get  away  without  difficulty  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
until  to-morrow  morning  nobody  would  be  a  penny  the  wiser. 

Fortunately  it  was  Thursday,  when  a  combined  passenger 
and  cargo  steamer  sailed  to  Liverpool.  Of  course  the  motor- 
car would  not  be  available  to  take  me  to  the  pier,  but  Tommy 
the  Mate,  who  had  a  stiff  cart  in  which  he  took  his  surplus 
products  to  market,  would  be  waiting  for  me  at  eleven  o  'clock 
by  the  gate  to  the  high  road. 

The  people  downstairs,  meaning  my  husband  and  Alma  and 
her  mother,  were  going  off  to  the  pavilion  (where  hundreds 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  341 

of  decorators  were  to  work  late  and  the  orchestra  and  ballet 
were  to  have  a  rehearsal),  and  they  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
they  would  not  be  back  until  "way  round  about  midnight." 

"But  the  servants?"  I  asked. 

"They're  going  too,  bless  them,"  said  Price.  "So  eat  your 
dinner  in  peace,  my  lady,  and  don't  worry  about  a  thing  until 
I  come  back  to  fetch  you. ' ' 

Another  hour  passed.  I  was  in  a  fever  of  apprehension.  I 
?3lt  like  a  prisoner  who  was  about  to  escape  from  a  dungeon. 

A  shrill  wind  was  coming  up  from  the  sea  and  whistling 
about  the  house.  I  could  hear  the  hammering  of  the  workmen 
in  the  pavilion  as  well  as  the  music  of  the  orchestra  practising 
their  scores. 

A  few  minutes  before  eleven  Price  returned,  carrying  one 
of  the  smaller  of  the  travelling-trunks  I  had  taken  to  Cairo. 
I  noticed  that  it  bore  no  name  and  no  initials. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said.  "They've  gone  off,  every 
mother's  son  and  daughter  of  them — all  except  the  house- 
keeper, and  I've  caught  her  out,  the  cat!" 

That  lynx-eyed  person  had  begun  to  suspect.  She  had  seen 
Tommy  harnessing  his  horse  and  had  not  been  satisfied  with 
his  explanation — that  he  was  taking  tomatoes  to  Blackwater 
to  be  sent  off  by  the  Liverpool  steamer. 

So  to  watch  events,  without  seeming  to  watch  them,  the 
housekeeper  (when  the  other  servants  had  gone  off  to  the 
rehearsal)  had  stolen  upstairs  to  her  room  in  the  West  tower 
overlooking  the  back  courtyard. 

But  Price  had  been  more  than  a  match  for  her.  Creeping 
up  behind,  she  had  locked  the  door  of  the  top  landing,  and 
now  the  "little  cat"  might  scream  her  head  off  through  the 
window,  and  (over  the  noises  of  the  wind  and  the  workmen) 
it  would  be  only  like  "torn"  shrieking  on  the  tiles. 

"We  must  be  quick,  though,"  said  Price,  tumbling  into  my 
travelling-trunk  as  many  of  my  clothes  as  it  would  hold. 

When  it  was  full  and  locked  and  corded  she  said: 

"Wait,"  and  stepped  out  on  the  landing  to  listen. 

After  a  moment  she  returned  saying: 

"Not  a  sound!    Now  for  it,  my  lady." 

And  then,  tying  her  handkerchief  over  her  head  to  keep 
down  her  hair  in  the  wind,  she  picked  up  the  trunk  in  her 
arms  and  crept  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

The  moment  had  come  to  go,  yet,  eager  as  I  had  been  all 
evening  to  escape  from  my  husband's  house,  I  could  scarcely 


342  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

tear  myself  away,  for  I  was  feeling  a  little  of  that  regret  which 
comes  to  us  all  when  we  are  doing  something  for  the  last 
time. 

Passing  through  the  boudoir  this  feeling  took  complete 
possession  of  me.  Only  a  few  hours  before  it  had  been  the 
scene  of  my  deepest  degradation,  but  many  a  time  before  it 
had  been  the  place  of  my  greatest  happiness. 

"You  are  my  wife.  I  am  your  real  husband.  No  matter 
where  you  are  or  what  they  do  with  you,  you  are  mine  and 
always  will  be." 

Half -closing  the  door,  I  took  a  last  look  round — at  the  piano, 
the  desk,  the  table,  the  fireplace,  all  the  simple  things  asso- 
ciated with  my  dearest  memories.  So  strong  was  the  yearning 
of  my  own  soul  that  I  felt  as  if  the  soul  of  Martin  were  in  the 
room  with  me  at  that  moment. 

I  believe  it  was. 

"Quick,  my  lady,  or  you'll  lose  your  steamer,"  whispered 
Price,  and  then  we  crossed  the  landing  (which  was  creaking 
again)  and  crept  noiselessly  down  a  back  staircase. 

We  were  near  the  bottom  when  I  was  startled  by  a  loud 
knocking,  which  seemed  to  come  from  a  distant  part  of  the 
house.  My  heart  temporarily  stopped  its  beating,  but  Price 
only  laughed  and  whispered : 

"There  she  is!     We've  fairly  caught  her  out,  the  cat." 

At  the  next  moment  Price  opened  an  outer  door,  and  after 
we  had  passed  through  she  closed  and  locked  it  behind  us. 

We  were  then  in  the  courtyard  behind  the  house,  stumbling 
in  the  blinding  darkness  over  cobble-stones. 

"Keep  close  to  me,  my  lady,"  said  Price. 

After  a  few  moments  we  reached  the  drive.  I  think  I  was 
more  nervous  than  I  had  ever  been  before.  I  heard  the 
withered  leaves  behind  me  rustling  along  the  ground  before 
the  wind  from  the  sea,  and  thought  they  were  the  footsteps 
of  people  pursuing  us.  I  heard  the  hammering  of  the  work- 
men and  the  music  of  the  orchestra,  and  thought  they  were 
voices  screaming  to  us  to  come  back. 

Price,  who  was  forging  ahead,  carried  the  trunk  in  her  arms 
as  if  it  had  been  a  child,  but  every  few  minutes  she  waited 
for  me  to  come  up  to  her,  and  encouraged  me  when  I  stumbled 
in  the  darkness. 

"Only  a  little  further,  my  lady,"  she  said,  and  I  did  my 
best  to  struggle  on. 

We  reached  the  gate  to  the  high  road  at  last.     Tommy  the 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  343 

Mate  was  there  with  his  stiff  cart,  and  Price,  who  was  breath- 
less after  her  great  exertion,  tumbled  my  trunk  over  the  tail- 
board. 

The  time  had  come  to  part  from  her,  and,  remembering  how 
faithful  and  true  she  had  been  to  me,  I  hardly  knew  what 
to  say.  I  told  her  I  had  left  her  wages  in  an  envelope  on  the 
dressing-table,  and  then  I  stammered  something  about  being 
too  poor  to  make  her  a  present  to  remember  me  by. 

"It  doesn't  need  a  present  to  help  me  to  remember  a  good 
mistress,  my  lady,"  she  said. 

"God  bless  you  for  being  so  good  to  me,"  I  answered,  and 
then  I  kissed  her. 

"I'll  remember  you  by  that,  though,"  she  said,  and  she 
began  to  cry. 

I  climbed  over  the  wheel  of  the  stiff  cart  and  seated  myself 
on  my  trunk,  and  then  Tommy,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the 
front-board  with  his  feet  on  the  outer  shaft,  whipped  up  his 
horse  and  we  started  away. 

During  the  next  half-hour  the  springless  cart  bobbed  along 
the  dark  road  at  its  slow  monotonous  pace.  Tommy  never 
once  looked  round  or  spoke  except  to  his  horse,  but  I  under- 
stood my  old  friend  perfectly. 

I  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  lest  I  should  be  overtaken  and 
carried  back.  Again  and  again  I  looked  behind.  At  one 
moment,  when  a  big  motor-car,  with  its  two  great  white  eyes, 
came  rolling  up  after  us,  my  stormy  heart  stood  still.  But  it 
was  not  my  husband's  car,  and  in  a  little  while  its  red  tail-light 
disappeared  in  the  darkness  ahead. 

We  reached  Blackwater  in  time  for  the  midnight  steamer 
and  drew  up  at  the  landward  end  of  the  pier.  It  was  cold ; 
the  salt  wind  from  the  sea  was  very  chill.  Men  who  looked  like 
commercial  travellers  were  hurrying  along  with  their  coat- 
collars  turned  up,  and  porters  with  heavy  trunks  on  their 
shoulders  were  striving  to  keep  pace  with  them. 

I  gave  my  own  trunk  to  a  porter  who  came  up  to  the  cart, 
and  then  turned  to  Tommy  to  say  good-bye.  The  old  man  had 
got  down  from  the  shaft  and  was  smoothing  his  smoking 
horse,  and  snuffling  as  if  he  had  caught  a  cold. 

"Good-bye,  Tommy,"  I  said — and  then  something  more 
which  I  do  not  wish  to  write  down. 

"Good-bye,  lil  missie, "  he  answered  (that  cut  me  deep), 
"I  never  believed  ould  Tom  Dug  would  live  to  see  ye  laving 
home  like  this.  .  .  .  But  wait!  Only  wait  till  himself 


344  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

is  after  coming  back,  and  I'll  go  bail  it'll  be  the  divil  sit  up 
for  some  of  them." 

SEVENTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

IT  was  very  dark.  No  more  than,  three  or  four  lamps  on  the 
pier  were  burning,  but  nevertheless  I  was  afraid  that  the 
pier-master  would  recognise  me. 

I  thought  he  did  so  as  I  approached  the  gangway  to  the 
saloon,  for  he  said: 

II  Private  cabin  on  main  deck  aft." 

Nervous  as  I  was,  I  had  just  enough  presence  of  mind  to 
say  ' '  Steerage,  please, ' '  which  threw  him  off  the  scent  entirely, 
BO  that  he  cried,  in  quite  a  different  voice : 

"Steerage  passengers  forward." 

I  found  my  way  to  the  steerage  end  of  the  steamer ;  and  in 
order  to  escape  observation  from  the  few  persons  on  the  pier 
I  went  down  to  the  steerage  cabin,  which  was  a  little  triangular 
place  in  the  bow,  with  an  open  stove  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
and  a  bleary  oil-lamp  swinging  from  a  rafter  overhead. 

The  porter  found  me  there,  .and  in  my  foolish  ignorance  of 
the  value  of  money  I  gave  him  half  a  crown  for  his  trouble. 
He  first  looked  at  the  coin,  then  tested  it  between  his  teeth, 
then  spat  on  it,  and  finally  went  off  chuckling. 

The  first  and  second  bells  rang.  I  grudsred  every  moment 
of  delay  before  the  steamer  sailed,  for  I  still  felt  like  a  pris- 
oner who  was  running  away  and  might  even  yet  be  brought 
back. 

Seating  myself  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cabin,  I  waited 
and  watched.  There  were  only  two  other  steerage  passengers 
and  they  were  women.  Judging  by  their  conversation  I  con- 
cluded that  they  were  cooks  from  lodging-houses  on  "the 
front, ' '  returning  after  a  long  season  to  their  homes  in  Liver- 
pool. Both  were  very  tired,  and  they  were  spreading  their 
blankets  on  the  bare  bunks  so  as  to  settle  themselves  for  the 
night. 

At  last  the  third  bell  rang.  I  heard  the  engine  whistle,  the 
funnel  belch  out  its  smoke,  the  hawsers  being  thrown  off,  the 
gangways  being  taken  in,  and  then,  looking  through  the  port- 
hole, I  saw  the  grey  pier  gliding  behind  us. 

After  a  few  moments,  with  a  feeling  of  safety  and  a  sense 
of  danger  passed,  I  went  up  on  deck.  But  oh,  how  little  I 
knew  what  bitter  pain  I  was  putting  myself  to ! 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  345 

We  were  just  then  swinging  round  the  lighthouse  which 
stands  on  the  south-east  headland  of  the  bay,  and  the  flash 
of  its  revolving  light  in  my  face  as  I  reached  the  top  of  the 
cabin  stairs  brought  back  the  memory  of  the  joyous  and 
tumultuous  scenes  of  Martin's  last  departure. 

That,  coupled  and  contrasted  with  the  circumstances  of  my 
own  flight,  stealthily,  shamefully,  and  in  the  dead  of  night, 
gave  me  a  pang  that  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear. 

But  my  cup  was  not  yet  full.  A  few  minutes  afterwards 
we  sailed  in  the  dark  past  the  two  headlands  of  Port  Raa,  and, 
looking  up,  I  saw  the  lights  in  the  windows  of  my  husband's 
house,  and  the  glow  over  the  glass  roof  of  the  pavilion. 

What  would  happen  there  to-morrow  morning  when  it  was 
discovered  that  I  was  gone?  What  would  happen  to-morrow 
night  when  my  father  arrived,  ignorant  of  my  flight,  as  I 
felt  sure  the  malice  of  my  husband  would  keep  him? 

Little  as  I  knew  then  of  my  father's  real  motives  in  giving 
that  bizarre  and  rather  vulgar  entertainment,  I  thought  I 
saw  and  heard  everything  that  would  occur. 

I  saw  the  dazzling  spectacle,  I  saw  the  five  hundred  guests, 
I  saw  Alma  and  my  husband,  and  above  all  I  saw  my  father, 
the  old  man  stricken  with  mortal  maladies,  the  wounded  lion 
whom  the  shadow  of  death  itself  could  not  subdue,  degraded 
to  the  dust  in  his  hour  of  pride  by  the  act  of  his  own  child. 

I  heard  his  shouts  of  rage,  his  cries  of  fury,  his  imprecations 
on  me  as  one  who  should  never  touch  a  farthing  of  his  fortune. 
And  then  I  heard  the  whispering  of  his  "friends,"  who  were 
telling  the  "true  story"  of  my  disappearance,  the  tale  of  my 
"treacheries"  to  my  husband — just  as  if  Satan  had  willed  it 
that  the  only  result  of  the  foolish  fete  on  which  my  father  had 
wasted  his  wealth  like  water  should  be  the  publication  of 
my  shame. 

But  the  bitterest  part  of  my  experience  was  still  to  come. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  sailed  past  the  headlands  of  Port  Raa, 
the  lights  of  my  husband's  house  shot  out  of  view  like  meteors 
on  a  murky  night,  and  the  steamer  turned  her  head  to  the 
open  sea. 

I  was  standing  by  a  rope  which  crossed  the  bow  and  holding 
on  to  it  to  save  myself  from  falling,  for,  being  alone  with 
Nature  at  last,  I  was  seeing  my  flight  for  the  first  time  in  full 
light. 

I  was  telling  myself  that  as  surely  as  my  flight  became 
known  Martin's  name  would  be  linked  with  mine,  and  the 


346  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

honour  that  was  dearer  to  me  than  my  own  would  be  buried 
in  disgrace. 

0  God !    0  God !    Why  should  Nature  be  so  hard  and  cruel 
to  a  woman?    Why  should  it  be  permitted  that,  having  done 
no  worse  than  obey  the  purest  impulses  of  my  heart,  the  iron 
law  of  my  sex  should  rise  up  to  condemn  both  me  and  the  one 
who  was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  life  itself? 

1  hardly  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  holding  on  to  that 
rope.    There  was  no  sound  now  except  the  tread  of  a  sailor  in 
his  heavy  boots,    an  inarticulate   call   from   the   bridge,    an 
answering  shout  from  the  wheel,  the  rattling  of  the  wind  in 
the  rigging,  the  throbbing  of  the  engine  in  the  bowels  of  the 
ship,  and  the  monotonous  wash  of  the  waves  against  her  side. 

Oh,  how  little  I  felt,  how  weak,  how  helpless! 

I  looked  up  towards  the  sky,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  sky, 
no  moon,  and  no  stars,  only  a  vaporous  blackness  that  came 
down  and  closed  about  me. 

I  looked  out  to  the  sea,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  sea,  only 
a  hissing  splash  of  green  spray  where  the  steamer's  forward 
light  fell  on  the  water  which  her  bow  was  pitching  up,  and 
beyond  that  nothing  but  a  threatening  and  thundering  void. 

I  did  not  weep,  but  I  felt  as  other  women  had  felt  before 
me,  as  other  women  have  felt  since,  as  women  must  always 
feel  after  they  have  sinned  against  the  world  and  the  world's 
law,  that  there  was-  nothing  before  me  but  the  blackness  of 
night. 

"Out  of  the  depths  I  cry  unto  thee,  O  Lord.  Lord,  hear 
my  cry." 

But  all  at  once  a  blessed  thought  came  to  me.  We  were 
travelling  eastward,  and  dark  as  the  night  was  now,  in  a  few 
hours  the  day  would  dawn,  the  sun  would  shine  in  our  faces 
and  the  sky  would  smile  over  our  heads ! 

It  would  be  like  that  with  me.  Martin  would  come  back. 
I  was  only  going  to  meet  him.  It  was  dark  midnight  with  me 
now,  but  I  was  sailing  into  the  sunrise ! 

Perhaps  I  was  like  a  child,  but  I  think  that  comforted  me. 

At  all  events  I  went  down  to  the  little  triangular  cabin  with 
a  cheerful  heart,  forgetting  that  I  was  a  runaway,  a  homeless 
wanderer,  an  outcast,  with  nothing  before  me  but  the  wilder- 
ness of  London  where  I  should  be  friendless  and  alone. 

The  fire  had  gone  out  by  this  time,  the  oil-lamp  was  swing- 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  347 

ing  to  the  motion  of  the  ship,  the  timbers  were  creaking,  and 
the  Liverpool  women  were  asleep. 

SEVENTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

AT  eight  o'clock  next  morning  I  was  in  'the  train  leaving 
Liverpool  for  London. 

I  had  selected  a  second-class  compartment  labelled  "For 
Ladies,"  and  my  only  travelling  companion  was  a  tall  fair 
woman,  in  a  seal-skin  coat  and  a  very  large  black  hat.  She  had 
filled  the  carriage  with  the  warm  odour  of  eau-de-Cologne  and 
the  racks  on  both  sides  with  her  luggage,  which  chiefly  con- 
sisted of  ladies'  hat  boxes  of  various  shapes  and  sizes. 

Hardly  had  we  started  when  I  realised  that  she  was  a  very 
loquacious  and  expansive  person. 

Was  I  going  all  the-  way?  Yes?  Did  I  live  in  Liverpool? 
No?  In  London  perhaps?  No?  Probably  I  lived  in  the 
country?  Yes?  That  was  charming,  the  country  being  so 
lovely. 

I  saw  in  a  moment  that  if  my  flight  was  to  be  carried  out  to 
any  purpose  I  should  have  to  conceal  my  identity;  but  how  to 
do  so  I  did  not  know,  my  conscience  never  before  having  had 
to  accuse  me  of  deliberate  untruth. 

Accident  helped  me.  My  companion  asked  me  what  was 
my  husband's  profession,  and  being  now  accustomed  to  think 
of  Martin  as  my  real  husband,  I  answered  that  he  was  a 
commander. 

"You  mean  the  commander  of  a  ship?'* 

''Yes." 

"Ah,  yes,  you've  been  staying  in  Liverpool  to  see  him  off 
on  a  voyage.  How  sweet!  Just  what  I  should  do  myself  if 
my  husband  were  a  sailor." 

Then  followed  a  further  battery  of  perplexing  questionsi 

Had  my  husband  gone  on  a  long  voyage?  Yes?  Where 
to?  The  South.  Did  I  mean  India,  Australia,  New  Zealand? 
Yes,  and  still  farther. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  she  said  again.  "He's  probably  the  captain 
of  a  tramp  steamer,  and  will  go  from  port  to  port  as  long  as 
he  can  find  a  cargo." 

Hardly  understanding  what  my  companion  meant  by  this,  I 
half  agreed  to  it,  and  then  followed  a  volley  of  more  personal 
inquiries. 

I  was  young  to  be  married,  wasn't  I?    Probably  I  hadn't 


345 

been  married,  very  long,  had  I?    And  not  having  settled 
myself  in  a  home  perhaps  I  was  going  up  to  London  to  wait 
for  my  husband?     Yesf     How  wise — town  being  so  much 
more  cheerful  than  the  country. 
*  Any  friends  there?" 
'No." 

'None  whatever?" 
'None  whatever." 
'But  won't  you  be  lonely  by  yourself  in  London?" 

"A  little  lonely  perhaps." 

Being  satisfied  that  she  had  found  out  everything  about  me, 
my  travelling  companion  (probably  from  the  mere  love  of 
talking)  told  me  something  about  herself. 

She  was  a  fashionable  milliner  and  had  a  shop  in  the  West 
End  of  London.  Occasionally  she  made  personal  visits  to  the 
provinces  to  take  orders  from  the  leading  shopkeepers,  but 
during  the  season  she  found  it  more  profitable  to  remain  in 
town,  where  her  connection  was  large,  among  people  who 
could  pay  the  highest  prices. 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  Crewe,  and  as  there  was  some 
delay  in  getting  into  the  station,  my  travelling  companion  put 
her  head  out  of  the  window  to  inquire  the  cause.  She  was  told 
that  a  night  train  from  Scotland  was  in  front  of  us,  and  we 
should  have  to  be  coupled  on  to  it  before  we  could  proceed  to 
London. 

This  threw  her  into  the  wildest  state  of  excitement. 

"I  see  what  it  is,"  she  said.  "The  shooting  season  is  over 
and  the  society  people  are  coming  down  from  the  moors.  I 
know  lots  and  lots  of  them.  They  are  my  best  customers — 
the  gentlemen  at  all  events." 

"The  gentlemen?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh. 

After  some  shunting  our  Liverpool  carriages  were  coupled 
to  the  Scotch  train  and  run  into  the  station,  where  a  number 
of  gentlemen  in  knickerbockers  and  cloth  caps  were  strolling 
about  the  platform. 

My  companion  seemed  to  know  them  all,  and  gave  them 
their  names,  generally  their  Christian  names,  and  often  their 

familial-  ones. 

Suddenly  I  had  a  shock.  A  tell  man,  whose  figure  I  recog- 
nised, passed  close  by  our  carriage,  and  I  had  only  time  to 
conceal  myself  from  observation  behind  the  curtain  of  the 
window. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  349 

c '  HeUoa !  * '  cried  my  companion.  ' c  There 's  Teddy  Eastcliff. 
He  married  Camilla,  the  Russian  dancer.  They  first  met  in 
my  shop  I  may  tell  you." 

I  was  feeling  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  but  a  thick  veil  must 
have  hidden  my  confusion,  for  after  we  left  Crewe  my  com- 
panion, becoming  still  more  confidential,  talked  for  a  long  time 
about  her  aristocratic  customers,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
life  that  was  on  the  verge  of  a  kind  of  fashionable  Bohemia. 

More  than  once  I  recognised  my  husband's  friends  among 
the  number  of  her  clients,  and  trembling  lest  my  husband  him- 
self should  become  a  subject  of  discussion,  I  made  the  excuse 
of  a  headache  to  close  my  eyes  and  be  silent. 

My  companion  thereupon  slept,  very  soundly  and  rather 
audibly,  from  Rugby  to  Willesden,  where,  awakening  with  a 
start  while  the  tickets  were  being  collected,  she  first  powdered 
her  face  by  her  fashion-glass  and  then  interested  herself  afresh 
in  my  affairs. 

"Did  you  say,  my  dear,  that  you  have  no  friends  in 
London!" 

I  repeated  that  I  had  none. 

"Then  you  will  go  to  an  hotel,  I  suppose?" 

I  answered  that  I  should  have  to  look  for  something  less 
expensive. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  know  something  that 
will  suit  you  exactly." 

It  was  a  quiet  boarding  establishment  in  Bloomsbury — 
comfortable  house,  reasonable  terms,  and,  above  all,  perfectly 
respectable.  In  fact,  it  was  kept  by  her  own  sister,  and  if  I 
liked  she  would  take  me  along  in  her  cab  and  drop  me  at  the 
door.  Should  she  ? 

Looking  back  at  that  moment  I  cannot  but  wonder  that 
after  what  I  had  heard  I  did  not  fear  discovery.  But  during 
the  silence  of  the  last  hour  I  had  been  feeling  more  than  ever 
weak  and  helpless,  so  that  when  my  companion  offered  me  a 
shelter  in  that  great,  noisy,  bewildering  city  in  which  I  had 
intended  to  hide  myself,  but  now  feared  I  might  be  submerged 
and  lost,  with  a  willing  if  not  a  cheerful  heart  I  accepted. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  our  cab  drew  up  in  a  street  off 
Russell  Square  at  a  rather  grimy-looking  house  which  stood 
at  the  corner  of  another  and  smaller  square  that  was  shut  off 
by  an  iron  railing. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  waiter  of  sixteen  or 


350  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

seventeen  years,  who  was  wearing  a  greasy  dress-suit  and  a 
soiled  shirt  front. 

My  companion  pushed  into  the  hall,  I  followed  her,  and 
almost  at  the  same  moment  a  still  larger  and  perhaps  grosser 
woman  than  my  friend,  with  the  same  features  and  complexion, 
came  out  of  a  room  to  the  left  with  a  serviette  in  her  hand. 

"Sophie!" 

"Jane!"  cried  my  companion,  and  pointing  to  me  she  said: 

"I've  brought  you  a  new  boarder." 

Then  followed  a  rapid  account  of  where  she  had  met  me, 
who  and  what  I  was,  and  why  I  had  come  up  to  London. 

/'I've  promised  you'll  take  her  in  and  not  charge  her  too 
much,  you  know." 

' '  "Why,  no,  certainly  not, ' '  said  the  sister. 

At  the  next  moment  the  boy  waiter  was  bringing  my  trunk 
into  the  house  on  his  shoulder  and  my  travelling  companion 
was  bidding  me  good-bye  and  saying  she  would  look  me  up 
later. 

When  the  door  was  closed  I  found  the  house  full  of  the  smell 
of  hot  food,  chiefly  roast  beef  and  green  vegetables,  and  I 
could  hear  the  clink  of  knives  and  forks  and  the  clatter  of 
dishes  in  the  room  the  landlady  had  come  from. 

"You'd  like  to  go  up  to  your  bedroom  at  once,  wouldn't 
you  ? ' '  she  said. 

We  went  up  two  flights  of  stairs  covered  with  rather  dirty 
druggeting,  along  a  corridor  that  had  a  thin  strip  of  linoleum, 
and  finally  up  a  third  flight  that  was  bare  to  the  boards,  until 
we  came  to  a  room  which  seemed  to  be  at  the  top  of  the  house 
and  situated  in  its  remotest  corner. 

It  was  a  very  small  apartment,  hardly  larger  than  the  room 
over  the  hall  at  home  in  which  Aunt  Bridget  had  made  me  sleep 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  it  was  nearly  as  cold  and  cheerless. 

The  wall-paper,  which  had  once  been  a  flowery  pink,  was 
now  pale  and  patternless ;  the  Venetian  blind  over  the  window 
(which  looked  out  on  the  smaller  square)  had  lost  one  of  its 
cords  and  hung  at  an  irregular  angle ;  there  was  a  mirror  over 
the  mantelpiece  with  the  silvering  much  mottled,  and  a  leather- 
covered  easy  chair  whereof  the  spring  was  broken  and  the 
seat  heavily  indented. 

' '  I  dare  say  this  will  do  for  the  present, ' '  said  my  landlady, 
and  though  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth  I  compelled  myself  to 
agree. 

' '  My  terms,  including  meals  and  all  extras,  will  be  a  pound 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  351 

a  week, ' '  she  added,  and  to  that  also,  with  a  lump  in  my  throat 
I  assented,  whereupon  my  landlady  left  me,  saying  luncheon 
was  on  and  I  could  come  downstairs  when  I  was  ready. 

A  talkative  cockney  chambermaid,  with  a  good  little  face, 
brought  me  a  fat  blue  jug  of  hot  water,  and  after  I  had  washed 
and  combed  I  found  my  way  down  to  the  dining-room. 

What  I  expected  to  find  there  I  hardly  know.  What  I  did 
find  was  a  large  chamber,  as  dingy  as  the  rest  of  the  house, 
and  as  much  in  need  of  refreshing,  with  a  long  table  down  the 
middle,  at  which  some  twenty  persons  sat  eating,  with  the 
landlady  presiding  at  the  top. 

The  company,  who  were  of  both  sexes  and  chiefly  elderly, 
seemed  to  me  at  that  first  sight  to  be  dressed  in  every  variety 
of  out-of-date  clothes,  many  of  them  rather  shabby  and  some 
almost  grotesque. 

Raising  their  faces  from  their  plates  they  looked  at  me  as 
I  entered,  and  I  was  so  confused  that  I  stood  hesitating  near 
the  door  until  the  landlady  called  to  me. 

"Come  up  here,"  she  said,  and  when  I  had  done  so,  and 
taken  the  seat  by  her  side,  which  had  evidently  been  reserved 
for  me,  she  whispered: 

"I  don't  think  my  sister  mentioned  your  name,  my  dear. 
What  is  it?" 

I  had  no  time  to  deliberate. 

"O'Neill,"  I  whispered  back,  and  thereupon  my  landlady, 
raising  her  voice,  and  addressing  the  company  as  if  they  had 
been  members  of  her  family,  said: 

"Mrs.  O'Neill,  my  dears." 

Then  the  ladies  at  the  table  inclined  their  heads  at  me  and 
smiled,  while  the  men  (especially  those  who  were  the  most 
strangely  dressed)  rose  from  their  seats  and  bowed  deeply. 

EIGHTIETH  CHAPTER 

OP  all  houses  in  London  this,  I  thought,  was  the  least  suitable 
to  me. 

Looking  down  the  table  I  told  myself  that  it  must  be  the 
very  home  of  idle  gossip  and  the  hot-bed  of  tittle-tattle. 

I  was  wrong.  Hardly  had  I  been  in  the  house  a  day  when 
I  realised  that  my  fellow-guests  were  the  most  reserved  and 
self-centred  of  all  possible  people. 

One  old  gentleman  who  wore  a  heavy  moustache,  and  had 
been  a  colonel  in  the  Indian  army,  was  understood  to  be  a 


352  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

student  of  Biblical  prophecy,  having  collected  some  thousands 
of  texts  which  established  the  identity  of  the  British  nation 
with  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel. 

Another  old  gentleman,  who  wore  a  patriarchal  beard  and 
had  taken  orders  without  securing  a  living,  was  believed  to  be 
writing  a  history  of  the  world  and  (after  forty  years  of  con- 
tinuous labour)  to  have  reached  the  century  before  Christ. 

An  elderly  lady  with  a  benign  expression  was  said  to  be  a 
tragic  actress  who  was  studying  in  secret  for  a  season  at  the 
National  Theatre. 

Such,  and  of  such  kind,  were  my  house-mates ;  and  I  have 
since  been  told  that  every  great  city  has  many  such  groups  of 
people,  the  great  prophets,  the  great  historians,  the  great 
authors,  the  great  actors  whom  the  world  does  not  know — the 
odds  and  ends  of  humanity,  thrown  aside  by  the  rushing  river 
of  life  into  the  gulley-ways  that  line  its  banks,  the  odd  brothers, 
the  odd  sisters,  the  odd  uncles,  the  odd  aunts,  for  whom  there 
is  no  place  in  the  family,  in  society,  or  in  the  business  of 
the  world. 

It  was  all  very  curious  and  pathetic,  yet  I  think  I  should 
have  been  safe,  for  a  time  at  all  events,  in  this  little  corner  of 
London  into  which  chance  had  so  strangely  thrown  me,  but 
for  one  unfortunate  happening. 

That  was  the  arrival  of  the  daily  newspaper. 

There  was  never  more  than  a  single  copy.  It  came  at  eight 
in  the  morning  and  was  laid  on  the  dining-room  mantelpiece, 
from  which  (by  an  unwritten  law  of  the  house)  it  was  the  duty 
as  well  as  the  honour  of  the  person  who  had  first  finished 
breakfast  to  take  it  up  and  read  the  most  startling  part  of  the 
news  to  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Thus  it  occurred  that  on  the  third  morning  after  my  arrival 
I  was  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  old  colonel,  who,  standing 
back  to  the  fire,  with  the  newspaper  in  his  hand,  cried : 

"Mysterious  Disappearance  of  a  Peeress." 

' '  Read  it, ' '  said  the  old  clergyman. 

The  tea-cup  which  I  was  raising  to  my  mouth  trembled  in 
my  hand,  and  when  I  set  it  down  it  rattled  against  the  saucer. 
I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  it  came. 

The  old  colonel  read: 

"A  telegram  from  Blackwater  announces  the  mysterious  dis- 
appearance of  the  young  wife  of  Lord  Raa,  which  appears  to 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  353 

have  taken  place  late  on  Thursday  night  or  in  the  early  hours 
of  Friday  morning. 

"It  will  be  remembered  that  the  missing  lady  was  married  a 
little  more  than  a  year  ago,  and  her  disappearance  is  the  more 
unaccountable  from  the  fact  that  during  the  past  month  she 
has  been  actively  occupied  in  preparing  for  a  fete  in  honour  of 
her  return  home  after  a  long  and  happy  honeymoon. 

"The  pavilion  in  which  the  fete  was  to  have  been  held  had 
been  erected  on  a  headland  between  Castle  Raa  and  a  precipi- 
tous declivity  to  the  sea,  and  the  only  reasonable  conjecture  is 
that  the  unhappy  lady,  going  out  on  Thursday  night  to  super- 
intend the  final  preparations,  lost  her  way  in  the  darkness  and 
fell  over  the  cliffs. 

"The  fact  that  the  hostess  was  missing  was  not  generally 
known  in  Elian  until  the  guests  had  begun  to  arrive  for  the 
reception  on  Friday  evening,  when  the  large  assembly  broke 
up  in  great  confusion. 

"Naturally  much  sympathy  is  felt  for  the  grief-stricken 
husband." 

After  the  colonel  had  finished  reading  I  had  an  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  scream,  feeling  sure  that  the  moment 
my  house-mates  looked  into  my  .face  they  must  see  that  I  was 
the  person  indicated. 

They  did  not  look,  and  after  a  chorus  of  exclamations 
("Most  mysterious!"  "What  can  have  become  of  her?"  "On 
the  eve  of  her  fete  too !")  they  began  to  discuss  disappearances 
in  general,  each  illustrating  his  point  by  reference  to  the  sub- 
ject of  his  own  study. 

"Perfectly  extraordinary  how  people  disappear  nowadays," 
said  one. 

"Extraordinary,  sir?"  said  the  old  colonel,  looking  over 
his  spectacles,  "why  should  it  be  extraordinary  that  one  per- 
son should  disappear  when  whole  nations — the  ten  tribes  for 
example.  .  .  ." 

"But  that's  a  different  thing  altogether,"  said  the  old 
clergyman.  "Now  if  you  had  quoted  Biblical  examples — 
Elisha  or  perhaps  Jonah.  .  .  ." 

After  the  discussion  had  gone  on  for  several  minutes  in  this 
way  I  rose  from  the  table  on  my  trembling  limbs  and  slipped 
out  of  the  room. 

It  would  take  long  to  tell  of  the  feverish  days  that  followed 

z 


354  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

—how  newspaper  correspondents  were  sent  from  London  to 
Elian  to  inquire  into  the  circumstances  of  my  disappearance ; 
how  the  theory  of  accident  gave  place  to  the  theory  of  suicide, 
and  the  theory  of  suicide  to  the  theory  of  flight ;  how  a  porter 
on  the  pier. at  Blackwater  said  he  had  carried  my  trunk  to  the 
steamer  that  sailed  on  Thursday  midnight,  thinking  I  was  a 
maid  from  the  great  house  until  I  had  given  him  half-a-crown 
(his  proper  fee  being  threepence)  ;  how  two  female  passengers 
had  declared  that  a  person  answering  to  my  description  had 
sailed  with  them  to  Liverpool;  how  these  clues  had  been 
followed  up  and  had  led  to  nothing;  and  how,  finally,  the 
correspondents  had  concluded  the  whole  incident  of  my  dis- 
appearance could  not  be  more  mysterious  if  I  had  been 
dropped  from  mid-air  into  the  middle  of  the  Irish  Sea. 

But  then  came  another  development. 

My  father,  who  was  reported  to  have  received  the  news  of 
my  departure  in  a  way  that  suggested  he  had  lost  control 
of  his  senses  (raging  and  storming  at  my  husband  like  a  man 
demented),  having  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I,  being  in  a 
physical  condition  peculiar  to  women,  had  received  a  serious 
shock  resulting  in  a  loss  of  memory,  offered  five  hundred 
pounds  reward  for  information  that  would  lead  to  my  dis- 
covery, which  was  not  only  desirable  to  allay  the  distress  of 
my  heart-broken  family  but  urgently  necessary  to  settle 
important  questions  of  title  and  inheritance. 

With  this  offer  of  a  reward  came  a  description  of  my  per- 
sonal appearance. 

"Age  20,  a  little  under  medium  height;  slight;  very  black 
hair;  lustrous  dark  eyes;  regular  features;  pale  face;  grave 
expression;  unusually  sunny  smile." 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  say  with  what  perturbation 
I  heard  these  reports  read  out  by  the  old  colonel  and  the  old 
clergyman.  Even  the  nervous  stirring  of  my  spoon  and  the 
agitated  clatter  of  my  knife  and  fork  made  me  wonder  that 
my  house-mates  did  not  realise  the  truth,  which  must,  I 
thought,  be  plainly  evident  to  all  eyes. 

They  never  did,  being  so  utterly  immersed  in  their  own 
theories.  But  all  the  same  I  sometimes  felt  as  if  my  fellow 
guests  in  that  dingy  house  in  Bloomsbury  were  my  judges  and 
jury,  and  more  than  once,  in  my  great  agitation,  when  the 
reports  came  near  to  the  truth,  I  wanted  to  cry,  ' '  Stop,  stop, 
don 't  you  see  it  is  I  ? " 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  355 

That  I  never  did  so  was  due  to  the  fact  that,  not  knowing 
what  legal  powers  my  father  might  have  to  compel  my  return 
to  Elian,  the  terror  that  sat  on  me  like  a  nightmare  was  that 
of  being  made  the  subject  of  a  public  quarrel  between  my 
father  and  my  husband,  concerning  the  legitimacy  of  my 
unborn  child,  with  the  shame  and  disgrace  which  that  would 
bring  not  only  upon  me  but  upon  Martin. 

I  had  some  reason  for  this  fear. 

After  my  father 's  offer  of  a  reward  there  came  various  spite- 
ful paragraphs  (inspired,  as  I  thought,  by  Alma  and  written 
by  the  clumsier  hand  of  my  husband)  saying  it  was  reported  in 
Elian  that,  if  my  disappearance  was  to  be  accounted  for  on 
the  basis  of  flight,  the  only  ' '  shock ' '  I  could  have  experienced 
must  be  a  shock  of  conscience,  rumour  having  for  some  time 
associated  my  name  with  that  of  a  person  who  was  not 
unknown  in  connection  with  Antarctic  exploration. 

It  was  terrible. 

Day  by  way  the  motive  of  my  disappearance  became  the  sole 
topic  of  conversation  in  our  boarding-house.  I  think  the 
landlady  must  have  provided  an  evening  as  well  as  a  morning 
paper,  for  at  tea  in  the  drawing-room  upstairs  the  most  recent 
reports  were  always  being  discussed. 

After  a  while  I  realised  that  not  only  my  house-mates  but  all 
London  was  discussing  my  disappearance. 

It  was  a  rule  of  our  boarding-house  that  during  certain 
hours  of  the  day  everybody  should  go  out  as  if  he  had  business 
to  go  to,  and  having  nothing  else  to  do  I  used  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  streets.  In  doing  so  I  was  compelled  to  pass  certain 
newsvendors'  stalls,  and  I  saw  for  several  days  that  nearly 
every  placard  had  something  about  "the  missing  peeress." 

When  this  occurred  I  would  walk  quickly  along  the 
thoroughfare  with  a  sense  of  being  pursued  and  the  feeling 
which  a  nervous  woman  has  when  she  is  going  down  a  dark 
corridor  at  night — that  noiseless  footsteps  are  coming  behind, 
and  a  hand  may  at  any  moment  be  laid  on  her  shoulder. 

But  nobody  troubled  me  in  the  streets  and  the  only  person 
in  our  boarding-house  who  seemed  to  suspect  me  was  our 
landlady.  She  said  nothing,  but  when  my  lip  was  quivering 
while  the  old  colonel  read  that  cruel  word  about  Martin  I 
caught  her  little  grey  eyes  looking  aslant  at  me. 

One  afternoon,  her  sister,  the  milliner,  came  to  see  me 
according  to  her  promise,  and  though  she,  too,  said  nothing, 
I  saw  that,  while  the  old  colonel  and  the  old  clergyman  were 


356  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

disputing  on  the  hearthrug  about  some  disappearance  which 
occurred  thousands  of  years  ago,  she  was  looking  fixedly  at 
the  fingers  with  which,  in  my  nervousness,  I  was  ruckling  up 
the  discoloured  chintz  of  my  chair. 

Then  in  a  moment — I  don't  know  why — it  flashed  upon  me 
that  my  travelling  companion  was  in  correspondence  with 
my  father. 

That  idea  became  so  insistent  towards  dinner-time  that  I 
made  pretence  of  being  ill  (which  was  not  very  difficult)  to 
retire  to  my  room,  where  the  cockney  chambermaid  wrung 
handkerchiefs  out  of  vinegar  and  laid  them  on  my  forehead  to 
relieve  my  headache — though  she  increased  it,  poor  thing,  by 
talking  perpetually. 

Next  morning  the  landlady  came  up  to  say  that  if,  as  she 
assumed  from  my  name,  I  was  Irish  and  a  Catholic,  I  might 
like  to  receive  a  visit  from  a  Sister  of  Mercy  who  called  at 
the  house  at  intervals  to  attend  to  the  sick. 

I  thought  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  this  was  a  subterfuge,  but 
feeling  that  my  identity  was  suspected  I  dared  not  give  cause 
for  further  suspicion,  so  I  compelled  myself  to  agree. 

A  few  minutes  later,  having  got  up  and  dressed,  I  was 
standing  with  my  back  to  the  window,  feeling  like  one  who 
would  soon  have  to  face  an  attack,  when  a  soft  footstep  came 
up  my  corridor  and  a  gentle  hand  knocked  at  my  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  cried,  trembling  like  the  last  leaf  at  the  end 
of  a  swinging  bough. 

And  then  an  astonishing  thing  happened. 

A  young  woman  stepped  quietly  into  the  room  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  She  was  wearing  the  black  and  white 
habit  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  but  I  knew  her  long, 
pale,  plain-featured  face  in  an  instant. 

A  flood  of  shame,  and  at  the  same  time  a  flood  of  joy  swept 
over  me  at  the  sight  of  her. 

It  was  Mildred  Bankes. 

EIGHTY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

"MARY,"  said  Mildred,  "speak  low  and  tell  me  everything. " 
She  sat  in  my  chair,  I  knelt  by  her  side,  took  one  of  her 

hands  in  both  of  mine,  and  told  her. 

I  told  her  that  I  had  fled  from  my  husband 's  house  because 

I  could  not  bear  to  remain  there  any  longer. 

I  told  her  that  my  father  had  married  me  against  my  will, 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  3£7 

in  spite  of  my  protests,  when  I  was  a  child,  and  did  not  know 
that  I  had  any  right  to  resist  him. 

I  told  her  that  my  father — God  forgive  me  if  I  did  him  a. 
wrong — did  not  love  me,  that  he  had  sacrificed  my  happiness 
to  his  lust  of  power,  and  that  if  he  were  searching  for  me  now 
it  was  only  because  my  absence  disturbed  his  plans  and  hurt 
his  pride. 

I  told  her  that  my  husband  did  not  love  me  either,  and  that 
he  had  married  me  from  the  basest  motives,  merely  to  pay 
his  debts  and  secure  an  income. 

I  told  her,  too,  that  not  only  did  my  husband  not  love  me, 
but  he  loved  somebody  else,  that  he  had  been  cruel  and  brutal 
to  me,  and  therefore  (for  these  and  other  reasons)  I  could  not 
return  to  him  under  any  circumstances. 

While  I  was  speaking  I  felt  Mildred's  hand  twitching  be- 
tween mine,  and  when  I  had  finished  she  said : 

' '  But,  my  dear  child,  they  told  me  your  friends  were  broken- 
hearted about  you;  that  you  had  lost  your  memory  and  per- 
haps your  reason,  and  therefore  it  would  be  a  good  act  to 
help  them  to  send  you  home." 

' '  It 's  not  true,  it 's  not  true, ' '  I  said. 

And  then  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard,  she 
told  me  how  she  came  to  be  there — that  the  woman  who  had 
travelled  with  me  in  the  train  from  Liverpool,  seeing  my 
father 's  offer  of  a  reward,  had  written  to  him  to  say  that  she 
knew  where  I  was  and  only  needed  somebody  to  establish  my 
identity;  that  my  father  wished  to  come  to  London  for  this 
purpose,  but  had  been  forbidden  by  his  doctor ;  that  our  parish 
priest,  Father  Donovan,  had  volunteered  to  come  instead, 
but  had  been  prohibited  by  his  Bishop;  and  finally  that  my 
father  had  written  to  his  lawyers  in  London,  and  Father  Dan 
to  her,  knowing  that  she  and  I  had  been  together  at  the  Sacred 
Heart  in  Rome,  and  that  it  was  her  work  now  to  look  after 
lost  ones  and  send  them  safely  back  to  their  people. 

"And  now  the  lawyer  and  the  doctors  are  downstairs,"  she 
said  in  a  whisper,  "and  they  are  only  waiting  for  me  to  say 
who  you  are  that  they  may  apply  for  an  order  to  send  you 
home. ' ' 

This  terrified  me  so  much  that  I  made  a  fervent  appeal  to 
Mildred  to  save  me. 

"Oh,  Mildred,  save  me,  save  me,"  I  cried. 

"But  how  can  I?    How  can  I?"  she  asked. 


358  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  saw  what  she  meant,  and  thinking  to  touch  her  still  more 
deeply  I  told  her  the  rest  of  my  story. 

I  told  her  that  if  I  had  fled  from  my  husband's  house  it  was 
not  merely  because  he  had  been  cruel  and  brutal  to  me,  but 
because  I,  too,  loved  somebody  else — somebody  who  was  far 
away  but  was  coming  back,  and  there  was  nothing  I  could  not 
bear  for  him  in  the  meantime,  no  pain  or  suffering  or  loneliness, 
and  when  he  returned  he  would  protect  me  from  every  danger, 
and  we  should  love  each  other  eternally. 

If  I  had  not  been  so  wildly  agitated  I  'should  have  known 
that  this  was  the  wrong  way  with  Mildred,  and  it  was  not  until 
I  had  said  it  all  in  a  rush  of  whispered  words  that  I  saw  her 
eyes  fixed  on  me  as  if  they  were  about  to  start  from  their 
sockets. 

"But,  my  dear,  dear  child,"  she  said,  "this  is  worse  and 
worse.  Your  father  and  your  husband  may  have  done  wrong, 
but  you  have  done  wrong  too.  Don 't  you  see  you  have  ? ' ' 

I  did  not  tell  her  that  I  had  thought  of  all  that  before,  and 
did  not  believe  any  longer  that  God  would  punish  me  for 
breaking  a  bond  I  had  been  forced  to  make.  But  when  she 
was  about  to  rise,  saying  that  after  all  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
to  send  me  home  before  I  had  time  to  join  my  life  to  his — 
whoever  he  was — who  had  led  me  to  forget  my  duty  as  a  wife, 
I  held  her  trembling  hands  and  whispered : 

"Wait,  Mildred.  There  is  something  I  have  not  told  you 
even  yet. ' ' 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  but  already  I  could  see  that  she 
knew  what  I  was  going  to  say. 

' '  Mildred, ' '  I  said,  "  if  I  ran  away  from  my  husband  it  was 
not  merely  because  I  loved  somebody  else,  but  because.  .  .  . " 

I  could  not  say  it.  Do  what  I  would  I  could  not.  But  holy 
women  like  Mildred,  who  spend  their  lives  among  the  lost 
ones,  have  a  way  of  reading  a  woman's  heart  when  it  is  in 
trouble,  and  Mildred  read  mine. 

"Do  you  mean  that  .  .  .  that  there  are  consequences 
.  .  .  going  to  be  ? "  she  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"Does  your  husband  know?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  father?" 

"No." 

Mildred  drew  her  hand  away  from  me  and  crossed  herself, 
saying  beneath  her  breath : 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  359 

"Oh  Mother  of  my  God!" 

I  felt  more  humbled  than  I  had  ever  been  before,  but  after 
a  while  I  said : 

' '  Now  you  see  why  I  can  never  go  back.  And  you  will  save 
me,  will  you  not  ? ' ' 

There  was  silence  for  some  moments.  Mildred  had  drawn 
back  in  her  chair  as  if  an  evil  spirit  had  passed  between  us. 
But  at  length  she  said : 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  you,  Mary.  But  the  gentlemen 
will  come  up  soon  to  know  if  you  are  the  Mary  O'Neill  whom 
I  knew  at  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  what  am  I  to  say  to  them  ? ' ' 

"Say  no,"  I  cried.  "Why  shouldn't  you?  They'll  never 
know  anything  to  the  contrary.  Nobody  will  know." 

"Nobody?" 

I  knew  what  Mildred  meant,  and  in  my  shame  and  con- 
fusion I  tried  to  excuse  myself  by  telling  her  who  the  other 
woman  was. 

"It  is  Alma,"  I  said. 

"Alma?    AlmaLier?" 

"Yes." 

And  then  I  told  her  how  Alma  had  come  back  into  my  life, 
how  she  had  tortured  and  tempted  me,  and  was  now  trying 
to  persuade  my  husband,  who  was  a  Protestant,  to  divorce  me 
that  she  might  take  my  place. 

And  then  I  spoke  of  Martin  again — I  could  not  help  it — 
saying  that  the  shame  which  Alma  would  bring  on  him  would 
be  a  greater  grief  to  me  than  anything  else  that  could  befall 
me  in  this  world. 

' '  If  you  only  knew  who  he  is, "  I  said,  ' '  and  the  honour  he  is 
held  in,  you  would  know  that  I  would  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  that  any  disgrace  should  fall  on  him  through  me. ' ' 

I  could  see  that  Mildred  was  deeply  moved  at  this,  and 
though  I  did  not  intend  to  play  upon  her  feelings,  yet  in  the 
selfishness  of  my  great  love  I  could  not  help  doing  so. 

"You  were  the  first  of  my  girl  friends,  Mildred — the  very 
first.  Don't  you  remember  the  morning  after  I  arrived  at 
school  ?  They  had  torn  me  away  from  my  mother,  and  I  was 
so  little  and  lonely,  but  you  were  so  sweet  and  kind.  You  took 
me  into  church  for  my  first  visitation,  and  then  into  the  garden 
for  my  first  rosary — don 't  you  remember  it  ? " 

Mildred  had  closed  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  becoming  very 
white. 

' '  And  then  don 't  you  remember  the  day  the  news  came  that 


360  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

my  mother  was  very  ill,  and  I  was  to  go  home  ?  You  came  to 
see  me  off  at  the  station,  and  don't  you  remember  what  you 
said  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  train?  You  said  we  might 
never  meet  again,  because  our  circumstances  would  be  so 
different.  You  didn't  think  we  should  meet  like  this,  did  you  ? " 

Mildred's  face  was  growing  deadly  white. 

"My  darling  mother  died.  She  was  all  I  had  in  the  world 
and  I  was  all  she  had,  and  when  she  was  gone  there  was  no 
place  for  me  in  my  father 's  house,  so  I  was  sent  back  to  school. 
But  the  Reverend  Mother  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  the  end  of 
it  was  that  I  wished  to  become  a  nun.  Yes  indeed,  and  never 
so  much  as  on  the  day  you  took  your  vows. ' ' 

Mildred's  eyes  were  still  closed,  but  her  eyelids  were  flut- 
tering and  she  was  breathing  audibly. 

' '  How  well  I  remember  it !  The  sweet  summer  morning  and 
the  snow-white  sunshine,  and  the  white  flowers  and  the  white 
chapel  of  the  Little  Sisters,  and  then  you  dressed  as  a  bride  in 
your  white  gown  and  long  white  veil.  I  cried  all  through 
the  ceremony.  And  if  my  father  had  not  come  for  me  then, 
perhaps  I  should  have  been  a  nun  like  you  now. ' ' 

Mildred's  lips  were  moving.  I  was  sure  she  was  praying 
to  our  Lady  for  strength  to  resist  my  pleading,  yet  that  only 
made  me  plead  the  harder. 

' '  But  God  knows  best  what  our  hearts  are  made  for, ' '  I  said. 
"He  knows  that  mine  was  made  for  love.  And  though  you 
may  not  think  it  I  know  God  knows  that  he  who  is  away  is 
my  real  husband — not  the  one  they  married  me  to.  You  will 
not  separate  us,  will  you  ?  All  our  happiness — his  and  mine — 
is  in  your  hands.  You  will  save  us,  will  you  not?" 

Some  time  passed  before  Mildred  spoke.  It  may  have  been 
only  a  few  moments,  but  to  me  it  seemed  like  an  eternity.  I 
did  not  know  then  that  Mildred  was  reluctant  to  extinguish  the 
last  spark  of  hope  in  me.  At  length  she  said : 

"Mary,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  asking  me  to  do. 
When  I  took  my  vows  I  promised  to  speak  the  truth  under  all 
circumstances,  no  matter  what  the  consequences,  as  surely  as 
I  should  answer  to  God  at  the  great  Day  of  "Judgment.  Yet 
you  wish  me  to  lie.  How  can  I?  How  can  I?  Remember 
my  vows,  my  duty. ' ' 

I  think  the  next  few  minutes  must  have  been  the  most  evil 
of  all  my  life.  When  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  that,  though  one 
word  would  save  me,  one  little  word,  Mildred  intended  to  give 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  361 

me  away  to  the  men  downstairs,  I  leapt  to  my  feet  and  burst 
out  on  her  with  the  bitterest  reproaches. 

"You  religious  women  are  always  talking  about  your  duty," 
I  cried.  "You  never  think  about  love.  Love  is  kind  and 
merciful;  but  no,  duty,  always  duty!  Love  indeed!  What 
do  you  cold  creatures  out  of  the  convent,  with  your  crosses  and 
rosaries,  know  about  love — real  love — the  blazing  fire  in  a 
woman's  heart  when  she  loves  somebody  so  much  that  she 
would  give  her  heart's  blood  for  him — yes,  and  her  soul  itself 
if  need  be." 

What  else  I  said  I  cannot  remember,  for  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  doing  until  I  found  myself  looking  out  of  the  window 
and  panting  for  breath. 

Then  I  became  aware  that  Mildred  was  making  no  reply  to 
my  reproaches,  and  looking  over  my  shoulder  I  saw  that  she 
was  still  sitting  in  my  chair  with  both  her  hands  covering  her 
face  and  the  tears  trickling  through  her  fingers  on  to  the  linen 
of  her  habit. 

That  conquered  me  in  a  moment. 

I  was  seized  with  such  remorse  that  I  wished  to  throw 
my  arms  about  her  neck  and  kiss  her.  I  dared  riot  do  that, 
now,  but  I  knelt  by  her  side  again  and  asked  her  to  forgive  me. 

"Forgive  me,  sister,"  I  said.  "I  see  now  that  God  has 
brought  us  to  this  pass  and  there  is  no  way  out  of  it.  You 
must  do  what  you  think  is  right.  I  shall  always  know  you 
couldn't  have  done  otherwise.  He  will  know  too.  And  if  it 
must  be  that  disgrace  is  to  fall  on  him  through  me  .  .  . 
and  that  when  he  comes  home  he  will  find  .  .  ." 

But  I  could  not  bear  to  speak  about  that,  so  I  dropped  my 
head  on  Mildred's  lap. 

During  the  silence  that  followed  we  heard  the  sound  of 
footsteps  coming  up  the  stairs. 

"Listen!  They're  here,"  said  Mildred.  "Get  up.  Say 
nothing.  Leave  everything  to  me." 

I  rose  quickly  and  returned  to  the  window.  Mildred  dried 
her  eyes,  got  up  from  the  chair  and  stood  with  her  back  to 
the  fire-place. 

There  was  a  knock  at  my  door.  I  do  not  know  which  of  us 
answered  it,  but  my  landlady  came  into  the  room,  followed 
by  three  men  in  tall  silk  hats. 

"Excuse  us,  my  dear,"  she  said,  in  an  insincere  voice. 
"These  gentlemen  are  making  an  examination  of  the  house, 
and  they  wish  to  see  your  room.  May  they?" 


362  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

I  do  not  think  I  made  any  reply.  I  was  holding  my  breath 
and  watching  intently.  The  men  made  a  pretence  of  glancing 
round,  but  I  could  see  they  were  looking  at  Mildred.  Their 
looks  seemed  to  say  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak: 

"Is  it  she?" 

Mildred  hesitated  for  a  moment,  there  was  a  dreadful  silence 
and  then — may  the  Holy  Virgin  bless  her ! — she  shook  her  head. 

I  could  bear  no  more.  I  turned  back  to  the  window.  The 
men,  who  had  looked  at  each  other  with  expressions  of  sur- 
prise, tried  to  talk  together  in  ordinary  tones  as  if  on  common- 
place subjects. 

"So  there's  nothing  to  do  here,  apparently." 

* '  Apparently  not. ' ' 

"Let's  go,  then.  Good  day,  Sister.  Sorry  to  have  troubled 
you." 

I  heard  the  door  close  behind  them.  I  heard  their  low  voices 
as  they  passed  along  the  corridor.  I  heard  their  slow  footsteps 
as  they  went  down  the  stairs.  And  then,  feeling  as  if  my  heart 
would  burst,  I  turned  to  throw  myself  at  Sister  Mildred 's  feet. 

But  Sister  Mildred  was  on  her  knees,  with  her  face  buried 
in  my  bed,  praying  fervently. 

EIGHTY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

I  DID  not  know  then,  and  it  seems  unnecessary  to  say  now,  why 
my  father  gave  up  the  search  for  me  in  London.  He  did  so, 
and  from  the  day  the  milliner's  clue  failed  him  I  moved  about 
freely. 

Then  from  the  sense  of  being  watched  I  passed  into  that  of 
being  lost. 

Sister  Mildred  was  my  only  friend  in  London,  but  she  was 
practically  cut  off  from  me.  The  Little  Sisters  had  fixed  her 
up  (in  the  interests  of  her  work  among  the  lost  ones)  in  a  tiny 
flat  at  the  top  of  a  lofty  building  near  Piccadilly,  where  her 
lighted  window  always  reminded  me  of  a  lighthouse  on  the 
edge  of  a  dangerous  reef.  But  in  giving  me  her  address  she 
warned  me  not  to  come  to  her  except  in  case  of  urgent  need, 
partly  because  further  intercourse  might  discredit  her  denial, 
and  partly  because  it  would  not  be  good  for  me  to  be  called 
"one  of  Sister  Veronica's  girls" — that  being  Mildred's  name 
as  a  nun. 

Oh  the  awful  loneliness  of  London ! 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  363 

Others  just  as  friendless  have  wandered  in  the  streets  of 
the  big  city.  I  knew  I  was  not  the  first,  and  I  am  sure  I  have 
not  been  the  last  to  find  London  the  most  solitary  place  in  the 
world.  But  I  really  and  truly  think  there  was  one  day  of 
the  week  when,  from  causes  peculiar  to  my  situation,  my 
loneliness  must  have  been  deeper  than  that  of  the  most  friend- 
less refugee. 

Nearly  every  boarder  in  our  boarding-house  used  to  receive 
once  a  week  or  once  a  month  a  letter  containing  a  remittance 
from  some  unknown  source,  with  which  he  paid  his  landlady 
and  discharged  his  other  obligations. 

I  had  no  such  letter  to  receive,  so  to  keep  up  the  character 
I  had  not  made  but  allowed  myself  to  maintain  (of  being  a 
commander's  wife)  I  used  to  go  out  once  a  week  under  pre- 
tence of  calling  at  a  shipping  office  to  draw  part  of  my 
husband's  pay. 

In  my  childish  ignorance  of  the  habits  of  business  people  I 
selected  Saturday  afternoon  for  this  purpose ;  and  in  my  fear 
of  encountering  my  husband,  or  my  husband's  friends  in  the 
West  End  streets,  I  chose  the  less  conspicuous  thoroughfares 
at  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

Oh,  the  wearisome  walks  I  had  on  Saturday  afternoons,  wet 
or  dry,  down  the  Seven  Dials,  across  Trafalgar  Square,  along 
Whitehall,  round  the  eastern  end  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
and  past  Westminster  Pier  (dear  to  me  from  one  poignant 
memory),  and  so  on  and  on  into  the  monotonous  and  incon- 
spicuous streets  beyond. 

Towards  nightfall  I  would  return,  generally  by  the  footway 
across  Hungerford  Bridge,  which  is  thereby  associated  with 
the  most  painful  moments  of  my  life,  for  nowhere  else  did 
I  feel  quite  so  helpless  and  so  lonely. 

The  trains  out  of  Charing  Cross  shrieking  past  me,  the  dark 
river  flowing  beneath,  the  steamers  whistling  under  the  bridge, 
the  automobiles  tooting  along  the  Embankment,  the  clanging 
of  the  electric  cars,  the  arc  lamps  burning  over  the  hotels 
and  the  open  flares  blazing  over  the  theatres — all  the  never- 
resting  life  of  London — and  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult- 
uous solitude,  a  friendless  and  homeless  girl. 

But  God  in  His  mercy  saved  me  from  all  that — saved  me  too, 
in  ways  in  which  it  was  only  possible  to  save  a  woman. 

The  first  way  was  through  my  vanity. 

Glancing  at  myself  in  my  mottled  mirror  one  morning  I  was 
shocked  to  see  that  what  with  my  loneliness  and  my  weary 


364  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

walks  I  was  losing  my  looks,  for  my  cheeks  were  hollow,  my 
nose  was  pinched,  my  eyes  were  heavy  with  dark  rings  under- 
neath them,  and  I  was  plainer  than  Martin  had  ever  seen  me. 

This  frightened  me. 

It  would  be  ridiculous  to  terll  all  the  foolish  things  I  did 
after  that  to  improve  and  preserve  my  appearance  for  Martin 's 
sake,  because  every  girl  whose  sweetheart  is  away  knows  quite 
well,  and  it  is  not  important  that  anybody  else  should. 

There  was  a  florist's  shop  in  Southampton  Row,  and  I  went 
there  every  morning  for  a  little  flower  which  I  wore  in  the 
breast  of  my  bodice,  making  believe  to  myself  that  Martin  had 
given  it  to  me. 

There  was  a  jeweller's  shop  there  too,  and  I  sold  my  wedding 
ring  (having  long  felt  as  if  it  burnt  my  finger)  and  bought 
another  wedding  ring  with  an  inscription  on  the  inside  "From, 
Martin  to  Mary." 

As  a  result  of  all  this  caressing  of  myself  I  saw  after  a  while, 
to  my  great  joy,  that  my  good  looks  were  coming  back;  and 
it  would  be  silly  to  say  what  a  thrill  of  delight  I  had  when, 
going  into  the  drawing-room  of  our  boarding-house  one  day, 
the  old  actress  called  me  ''Beauty"  instead  of  the  name  I  had 
hitherto  been  known  by. 

The  second  way  in  which  God  saved  me  from  my  loneliness 
was  through  my  condition. 

I  did  not  yet  know  what  angel  was  whispering  to  me  out 
of  the  physical  phase  I  was  passing  through,  when  suddenly  I 
became  possessed  by  a  passion  for  children. 

It  was  just  as  if  a  whole  new  world  of  humanity  sprang  into 
life  for  me  by  magic.  When  I  went  out  for  my  walks  in  the 
streets  I  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  the  faces  of  men  and  women, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  London  were  peopled  by  children  only. 

I  saw  no  more  of  the  crowds  going  their  different  ways  like 
ants  on  an  ant-hill,  but  I  could  not  let  a  perambulator  pass 
without  peering  under  the  lace  of  the  hood  at  the  little  cherub 
face  whose  angel  eyes  looked  up  at  me. 

There  was  an  asylum  for  children  suffering  from  incurable 
diseases  in  the  smaller  square  beside  our  boarding-house,  and 
every  morning  after  breakfast,  no  matter  how  cold  the  day 
might  be,  I  would  open  my  window  to  hear  the  cheerful  voices 
of  the  suffering  darlings  singing  their  hymn : 

"There's  a  Friend  for  little  children, 
Above  the  bright  blue  sky." 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  365 

Thus  six  weeks  passed,  Christmas  approached,  and  the  sad 
old  city  began  to  look  glad  and  young  and  gay. 

Since  a  certain  night  at  Castle  Raa  I  had  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  I  had  thrown  myself  out  of  the  pale  of  the  Church, 
therefore  I  had  never  gone  to  service  since  I  came  to  London, 
and  had  almost  forgotten  that  confession  and  the  mass  used 
to  be  sweet  to  me. 

But  going  home  one  evening  in  the  deepening  London  fog 
(for  the  weather  had  begun  to  be  frosty)  I  saw,  through  the 
open  doors  of  a  Catholic  church,  a  great  many  lights  in  a  side 
chapel,  and  found  they  were  from  a  little  illuminated  model  of 
the  Nativity  with  the  Virgin  and  Child  in  the  stable  among  the 
straw.  A  group  of  untidy  children  were  looking  at  it  with 
bright  beady  eyes  and  chattering  under  their  breath,  while  a 
black-robed  janitor  was  rattling  his  keys  to  make  them  behave. 

This  brought  back  the  memory  of  Rome  and  of  Sister 
Angela.  But  it  also  made  me  think  of  Martin,  and  remember 
his  speech  at  the  public  dinner,  about  saying  the  prayers  for 
the  day  with  his  comrades,  that  they  might  feel  that  they  were 
not  cut  off  from  the  company  of  Christian  men. 

So  telling  myself  he  must  be  back  by  this  time  on  that  lonely 
plateau  that  guards  the  Pole,  I  resolved  (without  thinking  of 
the  difference  of  time)  to  go  to  mass  on  Christmas  morning, 
in  order  to  be  doing  the  same  thing  as  Martin  at  the  same 
moment. 

With  this  in  my  mind  I  returned  to  our  boarding-house  and 
found  Christmas  there  too,  for  on  looking  into  the  drawing- 
room  on  my  way  upstairs  I  saw  the  old  actress,  standing  on  a 
chair,  hanging  holly  which  the  old  colonel  with  old-fashioned 
courtesy  was  handing  up  to  her. 

They  were  cackling  away  like  two  old  hens  when  they  caught 
sight  of  me,  whereupon  the  old'  actress  cried : 

"Ah,  here's  Beauty!" 

Then  she  asked  me  if  I  would  like,  a  ticket  for  a  dress 
rehearsal  on  Christmas  Eve  of  a  Christmas  pantomime. 

' '  The  audience  will  be  chiefly  children  out  of  the  lanes  and 
alleys  round-about/but  perhaps  you  won 't  mind  that, ' '  she  said. 

I  told  her  I  should  be  overjoyed,  and  at  two  o'clock  the 
following  afternoon  I  was  in  my  seat  at  the  corner  of  the 
dress-circle  of  the  great  theatre,  from  which  I  could  see  both 
the  stage  and  the  auditorium. 

The  vast  place  was  packed  with  children  from  ceiling  t* 


366  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

floor,  and  I  could  see  the  invisible  hands  of  thousands  of 
mothers  who  had  put  the  girls  into  clean  pinafores  and 
brushed  and  oiled  the  tousled  heads  of  the  boys. 

How  their  eager  faces  glistened!  How  sad  they  looked 
when  the  wicked  sisters  left  Cinderella  alone  in  the  kitchen! 
How  bright  when  the  glittering  fairy  godmother  came  to  visit 
her !  How  their  little  dangling  feet  clapped  together  with  joy 
when  the  pretty  maid  went  off  to  the  ball  behind  six  little 
ponies  which  pranced  along  under  the  magical  moonlight  in 
the  falling  snow! 

But  the  part  of  the  performance  which  they  liked  best  was 
their  own  part  when,  in  the  interval,  the  band  struck  up  one 
of  the  songs  they  sang  in  their  lanes  and  alleys; 

"Yew  aw  the  enny,  Oi  em  ther  bee, 
Oi'd  like  ter  sip  ther  enny  from  those  red  lips  yew  see." 

That  was  so  loaded  with  the  memory  of  one  of  the  happiest 
days  of  my  life  (the  day  I  went  with  Martin  to  see  the  Scotia) 
that,  in  the  yearning  of  the  motherhood  still  unborn  in  me,  I 
felt  as  if  I  should  like  to  gather  the  whole  screaming  houseful 
of  happy  children  to  my  breast. 

But  oh  why,  why,  why,  does  not  Providence  warn  us  when 
we  are  on  the  edge  of  tragic  things  ? 

The  pantomime  rehearsal  being  over  I  was  hurrying  home 
(for  the  evening  was  cold,  though  I  was  so  warm  within)  when 
I  became  aware  of  a  number  of  newsmen  who  were  flying  up 
from  the  direction  of  the  Strand,  crying  their  papers  at  the 
top  of  their  voice. 

I  did  not  usually  listen  to  such  people,  but  I  was  compelled 
to  do  so  now,  for  they  were  all  around  me. 

"Paper — third  e'shen — loss  of  the  Sco-sha." 

The  cry  fell  on  me  like  a  thunderbolt.  An  indescribable 
terror  seized  me.  I  felt  paralysed  and  stood  dead  still.  People 
were  buying  copies  of  the  papers,  and  at  first  I  made  a  feeble 
effort  to  do  the  same.  But  my  voice  was  faint ;  the  newsman 
did  not  hear  me  and  he  went  flying  past. 

"Paper — third  e'shen — reported  loss  of  the  Sco-slia." 

After  that  I  dared  not  ask  for  a  paper.  Literally  I  dared 
not.  I  dared  not  know  the  truth.  I  dared  not  see  the  dreadful 
fact  in  print. 

So  I  began  to  hurry  home.  But  as  I  passed  through  the 
streets,  stunned,  stupefied,  perspiring,  feeling  as  if  I  were 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  367 

running  away  from  some  malignant  curse,  the  newsmen  seemed 
to  be  pursuing  me,  for  they  were  darting  out  from  every  street. 

"Paper — third  e'shen — loss  of  the  Sco-sha." 

Faster  and  faster  I  hurried  along.  But  the  awful  cry  was 
always  ringing  in  my  ears,  behind,  before,  and  on  either  side. 

When  I  reached  our  boarding-house  my  limbs  could  scarcely 
support  me.  I  had  hardly  strength  enough  to  pull  the  bell. 
And  before  our  young  waiter  had  opened  the  door  two  news- 
men, crossing  the  square,  were  crying : 

"Paper — third  edition — reported  loss  of  the  'Scotia.'  " 

EIGHTY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

As  I  passed  through  the  hall  the  old  colonel  and  the  old  clergy- 
man were  standing  by  the  dining-room  door.  They  were  talk- 
ing excitedly,  and  while  I  was  going  upstairs,  panting  hard 
and  holding  on  by  the  handrail,  I  heard  part  of  their  con- 
versation. 

"Scotia  was  the  name  of  the  South  Pole  ship,  wasn't  it?" 

"Certainly  it  was.  We  must  send  young  John  out  for  a 
paper." 

Reaching  my  room  I  dropped  into  my  chair.  My  faculties 
had  so  failed  me  that  for  some  minutes  I  was  unable  to  think. 
Presently  my  tired  brain  recalled  the  word  "Reported"  and 
to  that  my  last  hope  began  to  cling  as  a  drowning  sailor  clings 
to  a  drifting  spar. 

After  a  while  I  heard  some  of  our  boarders  talking  on  the 
floor  below.  Opening  my  door  and  listening  eagerly  I  heard 
one  of  them  say,  in  such  a  casual  tone : 

' '  Rather  sad — this  South  Pole  business,  isn  't  it  ? " 

"Yes,  if  it's  true." 

"Doesn't  seem  much  doubt  about  that — unless  there  are 
two  ships  of  the  same  name,  you  know." 

At  that  my  heart  leapt  up.  I  had  now  two  rafts  to  cling  to. 
Just  then  the  gong  sounded,  and  my  anxiety  compelled  me  to 
go  down  to  tea. 

As  I  entered  the  drawing-room  the  old  colonel  was  unfolding 
a  newspaper. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  was  saying.  "Reported  loss  of  the 
Scotia — Appalling  Antarctic  Calamity." 

I  tried  to  slide  into  the  seat  nearest  to  the  door,  but  the  old 
actress  made  room  for  me  on  the  sofa  close  to  the  tea-table. 

"You  enjoyed  the  rehearsal?     Yes?"  she  whispered. 


368  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

* '  Hush ! ' '  said  our  landlady,  handing  me  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
then  the  old  colonel,  standing  back  to  the  fire,  began  to  read. 

"Telegrams  from  New  Zealand  report  the  picking  up  of 
large  fragments  of  a  ship  which  were  floating  from  the  Ant- 
arctic seas.  Among  them  were  the  bulwarks,  some  portions  of 
the  deck  cargo,  and  the  stern  of  a  boat,  bearing  the  name 
'Scotia.' 

"Grave  fears  are  entertained  that  these  fragments  belong  to 
the  schooner  of  the  South  Pole  expedition,  which  left  Akaroa  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  the  character  of  some  of  the  remnants 
(being  vital  parts  of  a  ship's  structure]  lead  to  the  inference 
that  the  vessel  herself  must  have  foundered." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  clergyman,  with  his  mouth  full 
of  buttered  toast. 

The  walls  of  the  room  seemed  to  be  moving  around  me. 
I  could  scarcely  see;  I  could  scarcely  hear. 

"Naturally  there  can  be  no  absolute  certainty  that  the 
'Scotia'  may  not  be  still  afloat,  or  that  the  members  of  the  ex- 
pedition may  not  have  reached  a  place  of  safety,  but  the  pres- 
ence of  large  pieces  of  ice  attached  to  some  of  the  fragments 
seem  to  the  best  authorities  to  favour  the  theory  that  the  unfor- 
tunate vessel  was  struck  by  one  of  the  huge  icebergs  which  have 
lately  been  floating  up  from  the  direction  of  the  Admiralty 
Mountains,  and  in  that  case  her  fate  will  probably  remain  one 
of  the  many  insoluble  mysteries  of  the  ocean." 

"Now  that's  what  one  might  call  the  irony  of  fate,"  said 
the  old  clergyman,  "seeing  that  the  object  of  the  expe- 
dition ..." 

"Hush!" 

"While  the  sympathy  of  the  public  will  be  extended  to  the 
families  of  all  the  explorers  who  have  apparently  perished  in  u 
brave  effort  to  protect  mankind  from  one  of  the  worst  dangers 
of  the  great  deep,  the  entire  world  will  mourn  the  loss  (as  we 
fear  it  may  be)  of  the  heroic  young  Commander,  Doctor 
Martin  Conrad,  who  certainly  belonged  to  the  ever-diminishing 
race  of  dauntless  and  intrepid  souls  who  seem  to  be  born  with 
that  sacred  courage  which  leads  men  to  render  up  their  lives 
at  the  lure  of  the  Unknown  and  the  call  of  a  great  idea." 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  369 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  drowning.  At  one  moment  there  was 
the  shrieking  of  waves  about  my  face ;  at  the  next  the  rolling 
of  billows  over  my  head. 

"Though  it  seems  only  too  certain  .  .  .  this  sacred 
courage  quenched  .  .  .  let  us.  not  think  such  lives  as  his 
are  wasted  .  .  .  only  wasted  lives  .  .  .  lives  given  up 
.  .  f.  inglorious  ease  .  .  .  pursuit  of  idle  amusements. 
.  .  .  Therefore  let  loved  ones  left  behind  .  .  .  take  com- 
fort .  .  .  inspiring  thought  .  .  .  if  lost  .  .  .  not  died 
in  vain.  .  .  .  Never  pleasure  but  Death  .  .  .  the  lure 
that  draws  true  hearts.  ..." 

I  heard  no  more.  The  old  colonel's  voice,  which  had  been 
beating  on  my  brain  like  a  hammer,  seemed  to  die  away  in 
the  distance. 

"How  hard  you  are  breathing.  What  is  amiss?"  said  our 
landlady. 

I  made  no  reply.  Rising  to  my  feet  I  became  giddy  and 
held  on  to  the  table  cloth  to  prevent  myself  from  falling. 

The  landlady  jumped  up  to  protect  her  crockery  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  old  actress  led  me  from  the  room.  I  ex- 
cused myself  on  the  ground  of  faintness,  and  the  heat  of  the 
house  after  my  quick  walk  home  from  the  theatre. 

Back  in  my  bedroom  my  limbs  gave  way  and  I  sank  to  the 
floor  with  my  head  on  the  chair.  There  was  no  uncertainty 
for  me  now.  It  was  all  over.  The  great  love  which  had 
engrossed  my  life  had  gone. 

In  the  overwhelming  shock  of  that  moment  I  could  not 
think  of  the  world 's  loss.  I  could  not  even  think  of  Martin 's. 
I  could  only  think  of  my  own,  and  once  more  I  felt  as  if 
something  of  myself  had  been  torn  out  of  my  breast. 

"Why?  Why?"  I  was  crying  in  the  depths  of  my  heart 
— why,  when  I  was  so  utterly  alone,  so  helpless  and  so  friend- 
less, had  the  light  by  which  I  lived  been  quenched. 

After  a  while  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner.  I  got  up  and 
lay  on  the  bed.  The  young  waiter  brought  up  some  dishes  on 
a  tray.  I  sent  them  down  again.  Then  tune  passed  and 
again  I  heard  voices  on  the  floor  below. 

"Rouerh  on  that  young  peeress  if  Conrad  has  gone  down, 
eh?" 

"What  peeress?" 

"Don't  you  remember — the  one  who  ran  away  from  that 
reprobate  Raa?" 

2A 


370  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Ah,  yes,  certainly.     I  remember  now." 

"Of  course,  Conrad  was  the  man  pointed  at,  and  perhaps 
if  he  had  lived  to  come  back  he  might  have  stood  up  for  the 
poor  thing,  but  now  ..." 

"Ah,  well,  that's  the  way,  you  see." 

The  long  night  passed. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  go  with  feet  of  lead,  sometimes 
with  galloping  footsteps.  I  remember  that  the  clocks  outside 
seemed  to  strike  every  few  minutes,  and  then  not  to  strike  at 
all.  At  one  moment  I  heard  the  bells  of  a  neighbouring 
church  ringing  merrily,  and  by  that  I  knew  it  was  Christmas 
morning. 

I  did  not  sleep  during  the  first  hours  of  night,  but  some- 
where in  the  blank  reaches  of  that  short  space  between  night 
and  day  (like  the  slack-water  between  ebb  and  flow),  which 
is  the  only  time  when  London  rests,  I  fell  into  a  troubled  doze. 

I  wish  I  had  not  done  so,  for  at  the  first  moment  of  re- 
turning consciousness  I  had  that  sense,  so  familiar  to  be- 
reaved ones,  of  memory  rushing  over  me  like  a  surging  tide. 
I  did  not  cry,  but  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  were  bleeding. 

The  morning  dawned  dark  and  foggy.  In  the  thick  air  of 
my  room  the  window  looked  at  me  like  a  human  eye  scaled 
with  cataract.  It  was  my  first  experience  of  a  real  London 
fog  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  If  there  had  been  one  ray  of  sun- 
shine that  morning  I  think  my  heart  would  have  broken. 

The  cockney  chambermaid  came  with  her  jug  of  hot  water 
and  wished  me  "a  merry  Christmas."  I  did  my  best  to 
answer  her. 

The  young  waiter  came  with  my  breakfast.  I  told  him  to 
set  it  down,  but  I  did  not  touch  it. 

Then  the  cockney  chambermaid  came  back  to  make  up  my 
room  and,  finding  me  still  in  bed,  asked  if  I  would  like  a  fire. 
I  answered  "Yes,"  and  while  she  was  lighting  a  handful 
between  the  two  bars  of  my  little  grate  she  talked  of  the  news 
in  the  newspaper. 

"It  don't  do  to  speak  no  harm  of  the  dead,  but  as  to  then* 
men  as  'ad  a  collusion  with  a  iceberg  in  the  Australier  sea, 
serve  'em  jolly  well  right  I  say.  What  was  they  a-doing 
down  there,  risking  their  lives  for  nothing,  when  they  ought 
to  have  been  a-thinking  of  their  wives  and  children.  My 
Tom  wanted  to  go  for  a  sailor,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him!  Not 
me!  'If  you're  married  to  a  sailor,'  says  I,  '  'alf  your  time 
you  never  knows  whether  you  'as  a  'usband  or  'asn't.'  'Talk 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  371 

sense,'  says  Tom.  'I  am  a-talking  sense,'  says  I,  'and  then 
think  of  the  kiddies,'  I  says." 

After  a  while  I  got  up  and  dressed  and  sat  long  hours  be- 
fore the  fire.  I  tried  to  think  of  others  beside  myself  who 
must  be  suffering  from  the  same  disaster — especially  of 
Martin's  mother  and  the  good  old  doctor.  I  pictured  the 
sweet  kitchen-parlour  in  Sunny  Lodge,  with  the  bright  silver 
bowls  on  the  high  mantelpiece.  There  was  no  fire  under 
the  slouree  now.  The  light  of  that  house  was  out,  and  two 
old  people  were  sitting  on  either  side  of  a  cold  hearth. 

I  passed  in  review  my  maidenhood,  my  marriage,  and  my 
love,  and  told  myself  that  the  darkest  days  of  my  loneliness 
in  London  had  hitherto  been. relieved  by  one  bright  hope.  I 
had  only  to  live  on  and  Martin  would  come  back  to  me.  But 
now  I  was  utterly  alone.  I  was  in  the  presence  of  nothing- 
ness. The  sanctuary  within  me  where  Martin  had  lived  was 
only  a  cemetery  of  the  soul. 

"Why?  Why?  Why?"  I  cried  again,  but  there  was  no 
answer. 

Thus  I  passed  my  Christmas  Day  (for  which  I  had  formed 
such  different  plans),  and  I  hardly  knew  if  it  was  for 
punishment  or  warning  that  I  was  at  last  compelled  to  think 
of  something  besides  my  own  loss. 

My  unborn  child! 

No  man  on  earth  can  know  anything  about  that  tragic 
prospect,  though  millions  of  women  must  have  had  to  face  it. 
To  have  a  child  coming  that  is  doomed  before  its  birth  to  be 
fatherless — there  is  nothing  in  the  world  like  that. 

I  think  the  bitterest  part  of  my  grief  was  that  nobody 
could  ever  know.  If  Martin  had  lived  he  would  have  leapt 
to  acknowledge  his  offspring  in  spite  of  all  the  laws  and  con- 
ventions of  life.  But  being  dead  he  could  not  be  charged 
with  it.  Therefore  the  name  of  the  father  of  my  unborn 
child  must  never,  never,  never  be  disclosed. 

The  thickening. of  the  fog  told  me  that  the  day  was  passing. 

It  passed.  The  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  square 
vanished  in  a  vaporous,  yellow  haze,  and  their  lighted 
windows  were  like  rows  of  bloodshot  eyes  looking  out  of  the 
blackness. 

Except  the  young  waiter  and  the  chambermaid  nobody 
visited  me  until  a  little  before  dinner  time.  Then  the  old 
actress  came  up,  rather  fantastically  dressed  (with  a  kind  of 
laurel  crown  on  her  head),  to  say  that  the  boarders  were 


372 

going  to  have  a  dance  and  wished  me  to  join  them.  I  ex- 
cused myself  on  the  ground  of  headache,  and  she  said: 

"Young  women  often  suffer  from  it.  It's  a  pity,  though! 
Christmas  night,  too!" 

Not  long  after  she  had  gone,  I  heard,  through  the  frequent 
tooting  of  the  taxis  in  the  street,  the  sound  of  old-fashioned 
waltzes  being  played  on  the  piano,  and  then  a  dull  thudding 
noise  on  the  floor  below,  mingled  with  laughter,  which  told 
me  that  the  old  boarders  were  dancing. 

I  dare  say  my  head  was  becoming  light.  I  had  eaten  noth- 
ing for  nearly  forty  hours,  and  perhaps  the  great  shock  which 
chance  had  given  me  had  brought  me  near  to  the  blank 
shadowland  which  is  death. 

I  remember  that  in  some  vague  way  there  arose  before  me 
a  desire  to  die.  It  was  not  to  be  suicide — my  religion  saved 
me  from  that — but  death  by  exhaustion,  by  continuing  to 
abstain  from  food,  having  no  desire  for  it. 

Martin  was  gone — what  was  there  to  live  for?  Had  I  not 
better  die  before  my  child  came  to  life!  And  if  I  could  go 
where  Martin  was  I  should  be  with  him  eternally. 

Stall  I  did  not  weep,  but — whether  audibly  or  only  in  the 
unconscious  depths  of  my  soul — more  than  once  I  cried  to 
Martin  by  name. 

"Martin!    Martin!    I  am  coming  to  you!" 

I  was  in  this  mood  (sitting  in  my  chair  as  I  had  done 
all  day  and  staring  into  the  small  slow  fire  which  was  slip- 
ping to  the  bottom  of  the  grate)  when  I  heard  a  soft  step  in 
the  corridor  outside.  At  the  next  moment  my  door  was 
opened  noiselessly,  and  somebody  stepped  into  the  room. 

It  was  Mildred,  and  she  knelt  by  my  side  and  said  in  a  low 
voice: 

"You  are  in  still  deeper  trouble,  Mary — tell  me.'* 

I  tried  to  pour  out  my  heart  to  her  as  to  a  mother,  but 
I  could  not  do  so,  and  indeed  there  was  no  necessity.  The 
thought  that  must  have  rushed  into  my  eyes  was  instantly 
reflected  in  hers. 

"It  is  he,  isn't  it?"  she  whispered,  and  I  could  only  bow 
my  head. 

"I  thought  so  from  the  first,"  she  said.  "And  now  you 
are  thinking  of  ...  of  what  is  to  come?" 

Again  I  could  only  bow,  but  Mildred  put  her  arms  about 
me  and  said: 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  373 

"Don't  lose  heart,  dear.  Our  Blessed  Lady  sent  me  to 
take  eare  of  you.  And  I  will — I  wilL" 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

Surely  Chance  must  be  the  damnedest  conspirator  against 
human  happiness,  or  my  darling  could  never  have  been  al- 
lowed to  suffer  so  much  from  the  report  that  my  ship  was  lost. 

What  actually  happened  is  easily  told. 

Two  days  after  we  left  Akaroa,  NJ2.,  which  was  the  last 
we  saw  of  the  world  before  we  set  our  faces  towards  the 
Unknown,  we  ran  into  a  heavy  lumpy  sea  and  made  bad 
weather  of  it  for  forty-eight  hours. 

Going  at  good  speed,  however,  we  proceeded  south  on 
meridian  179  degrees  E.,  latitude  68,  when  (just  as  we  were 
sighting  the  Admiralty  Mountains,  our  first  glimpse  of  the 
regions  of  the  Pole)  we  encountered  a  south-westerly  gale, 
which,  with  our  cumbersome  deck  cargo,  made  the  handling 
of  the  ship  difficult. 

Nevertheless  the  Scotia  rode  bravely  for  several  hours  over 
the  mountainous  seas,  though  sometimes  she  rolled  fifty  de- 
grees from  side  to  side. 

Towards  nightfall  we  shipped  a  good  deal  of  water ;  the  sea 
smashed  in  part  of  our  starboard  bulwarks,  destroyed  the 
upper  deck,  washed  out  the  galley,  carried  off  two  of  our  life 
boats  and  sent  other  large  fragments  of  the  vessel  floating 
away  to  leeward. 

At  last  the  pumps  became  choked,  and  the  water  found  its 
way  to  the  engine-room.  So  to  prevent  further  disaster  we 
put  out  the  fires,  and  then  started,  all  hands,  to  bale  out  with 
buckets. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  every  man- jack  at  work  on  that  job 
(scientific  staff  included),  and  you  would  not  have  thought 
out  spirits  were  much  damped,  whatever  our  bodies  may  have 
been,  if  you  had  been  there  when  I  cried,  "Are  we  down- 
hearted, shipmates?"  and  heard  the  shout  that  came  up  from 
fifty  men  (some  of  them  waist  deep  in  the  water)  : 

"No!" 

We  had  a  stiff  tussle  until  after  midnight,  but  we  stuck 
hard,  and  before  we  turned  into  our  bunks,  we  had  fought 
the  sea  and  beaten  it. 

Next  morning  broke  fine  and  clear,  with  that  fresh  crisp  air 
of  the  Antarctic  which  is  the  same  to  the  explorer  as  the  sniff 


374  THE   WOMAN  THOU   GAVEST  ME 

of  battle  to  the  warhorse,  and  no  sign  of  the  storm  except 
the  sight  of  some  dead-white  icebergs  which  had  been  torn 
from  the  islands  south-west  of  us. 

Everybody  was  in  high  spirits  at  breakfast,  and  when  one 
of  the  company  started  "Sweethearts  and  Wives"  all  hands 
joined  in  the  chorus,  and  (voice  or  no  voice)  I  had  a  bit  of  a 
go  at  it  myself. 

It  is  not  the  most  solemn  music  ever  slung  together,  but 
perhaps  no  anthem  sung  in  a  cathedral  has  ascended  to 
heaven  with  a  heartier  spirit  of  thanksgiving. 

When  I  went  up  on  deck  again,  though,  I  saw  that  enough 
of  our  "wooden  walls"  had  gone  overboard  to  give  "scarey 
people"  the  impression  (if  things  were  ever  picked  up,  as  I 
knew  they  would  be,  for  the  set  of  the  current  was  to  the 
north-east)  that  we  had  foundered,  and  that  made  me  think 
of  my  dear  one. 

We  had  no  wireless  aboard,  and  the  ship  would  not  be 
going  back  to  New  Zealand  until  March,  so  I  was  helpless  to 
correct  the  error;  but  I  determined  that  the  very  first  mes- 
sage from  the  very  first  station  I  set  up  on  the  Antarctic  con- 
tinent should  be  sent  to  her  to  say  that  I  was  safe  and  every- 
thing going  splendid. 

What  happened  on  Christmas  day  is  a  longer  story. 

On  the  eighteenth  of  December,  having  landed  some  of  my 
deck  cargo  and  provisions,  and  sent  up  my  ship  to  winter 
quarters,  I  was  on  my  way,  with  ponies,  dogs,  and  sledges  and 
a  large  company  of  men,  all  in  Al  condition,  to  the  lower 
summit  of  Mount  Erebus,  for  I  intended  to  set  up  my  first 
electric-power-wave  station  there — that  being  high  enough, 
we  thought,  to  permit  of  a  message  reaching  the  plateau  of  the 
Polar  zone  and  low  enough  (allowing  for  the  curvature  of  the 
earth)  to  cover  the  maximum  distance  in  a  northerly  direction. 

It  was  a  long  reach,  but  we  chose  the  rocky  ridges  and 
moraines,  trying  to  avoid  the  crevassed  glaciers,  and  all 
went  well  until  the  twentieth,  when  just  as  we  were  reaching 
the  steeper  gradients  a  strong  wind  sprang  up,  blowing 
straight  down  the  course  before  us. 

All  day  long  we  toiled  against  it,  but  the  weather  grew 
worse,  with  gusts  of  sleet  and  snow,  until  the  wind  reached 
the  force  of  a  hurricane  and  the  temperature  fell  to  28 
degrees  below  zero. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait  for  the  blizzard  to 
blow  itself  out,  so  we  plugged  down  our  tents  in  the  shelter  of 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  375 

the  rocky  side  of  a  ravine  that  had  an  immense  snow-field 
behind  it. 

The  first  night  was  bad  enough,  for  the  canvas  of  one 
tent  flew  into  ribbons,  and  the  poor  chaps  in  it  had  to  lie 
uncovered  in  their  half-frozen  sleeping-bags  until  morning. 

All  through  the  twenty-first,  twenty-second,  and  twenty- 
third  the  storm  continued,  sweeping  with  terrific  force  down 
the  ravine,  and  whirling  the  snow  in  dense  masses  from  the 
snow-field  overhead. 

Christmas  Eve  was  worse,  with  the  temperature  down  to 
38  degrees  below  zero  and  the  wind  up  to  eighty  miles  an 
hour  in  gusts,  and  during  the  greater  part  of  Christmas  Day 
we  were  all  confined  to  our  sleeping-bags  and  half  buried  in 
the  snow  that  had  drifted  in  on  us. 

As  a  consequence  we  had  no  religious  service,  and  if  any- 
body said  a  De  Profundis  it  was  between  his  crackling  lips 
under  his  frozen  beard.  We  had  no  Christmas  dinner 
either,  except  a  few  Plasmon  biscuits  and  a  nip  of  brandy 
and  water,  which  were  served  out  by  good  old  0 'Sullivan, 
who  had  come  with  me  as  doctor  to  the  expedition. 

On  St.  Stephen's  Day  I  made  a  round  of  the  camp  and 
found  the  ponies  suffering  terribly  and  the  dogs  badly  hit. 
The  storm  was  telling  on  the  men  too,  for  some  of  them  were 
down  with  dysentery,  and  the  toes  of  one  poor  chap  were 
black  from  frostbite. 

I  was  fit  enough  myself,  thank  God,  but  suffering  from 
want  of  sleep  or  rather  from  a  restless  feeling  which  broken 
sleep  brought  with  it. 

The  real  truth  is  that  never  since  I  sailed  had  I  been  able 
to  shake  off  the  backward  thought  that  I  ought  not  to  have 
left  my  dear  one  behind  me.  In  active  work,  like  the  gale, 
I  could  dismiss  the  idea  of  her  danger;  but  now  that  I  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  lie  like  a  log  in  a  sleeping-bag,  I  suffered 
terribly  from  my  recollection  of  her  self-sacrifice  and  my 
fear  of  the  consequences  that  might  come  of  it. 

This  was  not  so  bad  in  the  daytime,  for  even  in  the  midst 
of  the  whirling  snow  and  roaring  wind  I  had  only  to  close 
my  eyes,  and  I  could  see  her  as  she  came  up  the  road  in  the 
sunshine  that  Sunday  morning  when  she  was  returning  from 
church  in  her  drooping  hat  and  fluttering  veil,  or  as  she 
looked  at  me  with  her  great  "seeing  eyes"  at  the  last  moment 
of  all  when  she  compelled  me  to  come  away. 

But  the  night  was  the  devil.    No  sooner  did  I  drop  off  to 


376  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

sleep  than  I  awoke  with  a  start  at  the  sound  of  her  voice 
calling  me  by  my  name. 

"Martin!     Martin!" 

It  was  always  a  voice  of  distress,  and  though  I  am  no 
dreamer  and  I  think  no  crank,  I  could  not  get  away  from 
the  idea  that  she  was  crying  to  me  to  come  back. 

That  was  about  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  was  im- 
possible to  me  now,  and  yet  I  knew  that  getting  assurance 
from  somewhere  that  my  dear  one  was  being  cared  for  was 
the  only  way  to  set  my  mind  at  rest  for  the  job  that  was 
before  me. 

It  may  seem  ridiculous  that  I  should  have  thought  of  that, 
but  everybody  who  has  ever  been  with  Nature  in  her  mighty 
solitudes,  aloof  from  the  tides  of  life,  knows  that  the  soul  of 
man  is  susceptible  down  there  to  signs  which  would  seem 
childish  amid  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  world. 

It  was  like  that  with  me. 

I  shared  my  tent  with  0 'Sullivan,  the  chief  of  our  scien- 
tific staff,  and  Treacle,  who  thought  it  his  duty  to  take  care  of 
me,  though  the  work  was  generally  the  other  way  about. 

The  old  salt  had  been  badly  battered,  and  I  had  not  liked 
the  way  he  had  been  mumbling  about  "mother,"  which  is  not 
a  good  sign  in  a  stalwart  chap  when  his  strength  is  getting 
low. 

So  while  buttoning  up  the  tent  on  the  night  after  Christmas 
Day  I  was  a  bit  touched  up  to  see  old  Treacle,  who  had  lived 
the  life  of  a  rip,  fumbling  at  his  breast  and  hauling  some- 
thing out  with  an  effort. 

It  was  a  wooden  image  of  the  Virgin  (about  the  length  of 
my  hand)  daubed  over  with  gilt  and  blue  paint,  and  when  he 
stuck  it  up  in  front  of  his  face  as  he  lay  in  his  sleeping-bag, 
I  knew  that  he  expected  to  go  out  before  morning,  and 
wished  that  to  be  the  last  thing  his  old  eyes  should  rest  on. 

I  am  not  much  of  a  man  for  saints  myself  (having  found 
that  we  get  out  of  tight  places  middling  well  without  them) , 
but  perhaps  what  Treacle  did  got  down  into  some  secret  place 
of  my  soul,  for  I  felt  calmer  as  I  fell  asleep,  and  when  I 
awoke  it  was  not  from  the  sound  of  my  darling's  voice,  but 
from  a  sort  of  deafening  silence. 

The  roaring  of  the  wind  had  ceased ;  the  blizzard  was  over ; 
the  lamp  that  hung  from  the  staff  of  the  tent  had  gone  out; 
and  there  was  a  sheet  of  light  coming  in  from  an  aperture 
in  the  canvas. 


I  BECAME  A  MOTHER  377 

It  was  the  midnight  sun  of  the  Antarctic,  and  when  I 
raised  my  head  I  saw  that  it  fell  full  on  the  little  gilded  image 
of  the  Virgin.  Anybody  who  has  never  been  where  I  was  then 
may  laugh  if  he  likes  and  welcome,  but  that  was  enough  for 
me.  It  was  all  right!  Somebody  was  looking  after  my 
dear  one! 

I  shouted  to  my  shipmates  to  get  up  and  make  ready,  and 
at  dawn,  when  we  started  afresh  on  our  journey,  there  may 
have  been  dark  clouds  over  our  heads  but  the  sun  was  shining 
inside  of  us.  M.  C. 

[END  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

EIGHTY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

SISTER  MILDRED  was  right.  Our  Blessed  Lady  must  have 
interceded  for  me,  because  help  came  immediately. 

I  awoke  on  St.  Stephen's  morning  with  that  thrilling 
emotion  which  every  mother  knows  to  be  the  first  real  and 
certain  consciousness  of  motherhood. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  describe  the  physical  effects  of  that 
great  change.  But  the  spiritual  effect  is  another  matter. 
It  was  like  that  of  a  miracle.  God  in  His  great  mercy,  look- 
ing down  on  me  in  my  sorrow,  had  sent  one  of  His  minister- 
ing angels  to  comfort  me. 

It  seemed  to  say: 

"Don't  be  afraid.  He  who  went  away  is  not  lost  t«  you. 
Something  of  himself  is  about  to  return." 

I  felt  no  longer  that  I  was  to  be  left  alone  in  my  prison- 
house  of  London,  because  Martin's  child  was  to  bear  me 
company — to  be  a  link  between  us,  an  everlasting  bond,  so 
that  he  and  I  should  be  together  to  the  end. 

I  tremble  to  say  what  interpretation  I  put  upon  all  this — 
how  it  seemed  to  be  a  justification  of  what  I  did  on  the  night 
before  Martin  left  Elian,  as  if  God,  knowing  he  would  not 
return,  had  prompted  me,  so  that  when  my  dark  hour  came 
I  might  have  this  great  hope  for  my  comforter. 

And  oh  how  wonderful  it  was,  how  strange,  how  mys- 
terious, how  joyful! 

Every  day  and  all  day  and  always  I  was  conscious  of  my 
unborn  child,  as  a  fluttering  bird  held  captive  in  the  hand. 
The  mystery  and  the  joy  of  the  coming  life  soothed  away  my 
sorrow,  and  if  I  had  shed  any  tears  they  would  have  dried 
them. 


378  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

And  then  the  future! 

I  seemed  to  know  from  the  first  that  it  was  to  be  a  girl,  and 
already  I  could  see  her  face  and  look  into  her  sea-blue  eyes. 
As  she  grew  up  I  would  talk  to  her  of  her  father — the  brave 
explorer,  the  man  of  destiny,  who  laid  down  his  life  in  a 
great  work  for  the  world.  We  should  always  be  talking  of 
him — we  two  alone  together,  because  he  belonged  to  us  and 
nobody  else  in  the  world  besides.  Everything  I  have  written 
here  I  should  tell  her — at  least  the  beautiful  part  of  it,  the 
part  about  our  love,  which  nothing  in  life,  and  not  even 
death  itself,  could  quench. 

Oh  the  joy  of  those  days!  It  may  seem  strange  that  I 
should  have  been  so  happy  so  soon  after  my  bereavement,  but 
I  cannot  help  it  if  it  was  so,  and  it  was  so. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  sort  of  hysteria,  due  to  the  great  change 
in  my  physical  condition.  I  do  not  know.  I  do  D^t  think  I 
want  to  know.  But  one  thing  is  sure — that  hope  a^d  prayer 
and  the  desire  of  life  awoke  in  me  again,  as  by  the  touch  of 
God's  own  hand,  and  I  became  another  and  a  happier  woman. 

Such  was  the  condition  in  which  Mildred  found  me  when 
she  returned  a  few  days  later.  Then  she  brought  me  down 
plump  to  material  matters.  We  had  first  to  consider  the 
questions  of  ways  and  means,  in  order  to  find  out  how  to  f a>ce 
the  future. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  January,  my  appointed  time  was 
in  June,  and  I  had  only  some  sixteen  pounds  of  my  money 
left,  so  it  was  clear  that  I  could  not  stay  in  the  boarding-house 
much  longer. 

Happily  Mildred  knew  of  homes  where  women  could  live 
inexpensively  during  their  period  of  waiting.  They  were 
partly  philanthropic  and  therefore  subject  to  certain  regula- 
tions, which  my  resolute  determination  (not  to  mention 
Martin's  name,  or  permit  it  to  be  mentioned)  might  make  it 
difficult  for  me  to  observe,  but  Mildred  hoped  to  find  one 
that  would  take  me  on  her  recommendation  without  asking 
further  question. 

In  this  expectation  we  set  out  in  search  of  a  Maternity 
Home.  What  a  day  of  trial  we  had !  I  shall  never  forget  it. 

The  first  home  we  called  at  was  a  Catholic  one  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  our  boarding-house. 

It  had  the  appearance  of  a  convent,  and  that  pleased  me 
exceedingly.  After  we  had  passed  the  broad  street  door,  with 
its  large  brass  plate  and  small  brass  grille,  we  were  shown 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  379 

into  a  little  waiting-room  with  tiled  floor,  distempered  walls, 
and  coloured  pictures  of  the  saints. 

The  porteress  told  us  the  Mother  was  at  prayers  with  the 
inmates,  but  would  come  downstairs  presently,  and  while 
we  waited  we  heard  the  dull  hum  of  voices,  the  playing  of  an 
organ,  and  the  singing  of  the  sweet  music  I  knew  so  well. 

Closing  my  eyes  I  felt  myself  back  in  Rome,  and  began  to 
pray  that  I  might  be  permitted  to  remain  there.  But  the 
desire  was  damped  when  the  Mother  entered  the  room. 

She  was  a  stout  woman,  wearing  heavy  outdoor  boots  and 
carrying  her  arms  interlaced  before  her,  with  the  hands  hid- 
den in  the  ample  sleeves  of  her  habit,  and  her  face  was  so 
white  and  expressionless,  that  it  might  have  been  cast  in 
plaster  of  Paris. 

In  a  rather  nervous  voice  Mildred  explained  our  errand. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  tell  you  anything  about 
this  young  lady,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  if  you  will  take  her 
on  my  recommendation." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  Mother,  "that  would  be  utterly 
against  our  rule.  Not  to  know  who  the  young  lady  is,  where 
she  comes  from,  why  she  is  here,  and  whether  she  is  married 
or  single  or  a  widow — it  is  quite  impossible." 

Mildred,  looking  confused  and  ashamed,  said: 

"She  can  afford  to  pay  a  little." 

"That  makes  no  difference." 

"But  I  thought  that  in  exceptional  cases   ..." 

"There  can  be  no  exceptional  cases,  Sister.  If  the  young 
lady  is  married  and  can  say  that  her  husband  consents,  or 
single  and  can  give  us  assurance  that  her  father  or  guardian 
agrees,  or  a  widow  and  can  offer  satisfactory  references  ..." 

Mildred  looked  across  at  me,  but  I  shook  my  head. 

"In  that  case  there  seems  to  be  nothing  more  to  say,"  said 
the  Mother,  and  rising  without  ceremony  she  walked  with  us 
to  the  door. 

Our  next  call  was  at  the  headquarters  of  a  home  which 
was  neither  Catholic  nor  Protestant,  but  belonged,  Mildred 
said,  to  a  kind  of  Universal  Church,  admitting  inmates  of  all 
denominations. 

It  was  in  a  busy  thoroughfare  and  had  the  appearance  of  a 
business  office.  After  Mildred  had  written  her  name  and 
the  object  of  our  visit  on  a  slip  of  paper  we  were  taken  up  in 
a  lift  to  another  office  with  an  open  safe,  where  a  man  in 


380  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

a  kind  of  uniform  (called  a  Commissioner)  was  signing  let- 
ters and  cheques. 

The  Commissioner  was  at  first  very  courteous,  especially  to 
me,  and  I  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  was  mistaking 
me  for  something  quite  other  than  I  was  until  Mildred  ex- 
plained our  errand,  and  then  his  manner  changed  painfully. 

"What  you  ask  is  against  all  our  regulations,"  he  said. 
' '  Secrecy  implies  something  to  hide,  and  we  neither  hide  any- 
thing nor  permit  anything  to  be  hidden.  In  fact  our  system 
requires  that  we  should  not  only  help  the  woman,  but  punish 
the  man  by  making  him  realise  his  legal,  moral,  and  religious 
liability  for  his  wrong-doing.  Naturally  we  can  only  do  this 
by  help  of  the  girl,  and  if  she  does  not  tell  us  at  the  outset 
who  and  what  the  partner  of  her  sin  has  been  and  where 
he  is  to  be  found  ..." 

I  was  choking  with  shame  and  indignation,  and  rising  to 
my  feet  I  said  to  Mildred: 

''Let  us  go,  please." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know,"  said  the  Commissioner,  with  a  superior 
smile,  "I  have  seen  all  this  before.  The  girl  nearly  always 
tries  to  shield  the  guilty  man.  But  why  should  she  ?  It  may 
seem  generous,  but  it  is  really  wicked.  It  is  a  direct  means 
of  increasing  immorality.  The  girl  who  protects  the  author 
of  her  downfall  is  really  promoting  the  ruin  of  another 
woman,  and  if  ..." 

Thinking  of  Martin  I  wanted  to  strike  the  smug  Pharisee 
in  the  face,  and  in  order  to  conquer  that  unwomanly  impulse 
I  hurried  out  of  the  office,  and  into  the  street,  leaving  poor 
Mildred  to  follow  me. 

Our  last  call  was  at  the  home  of  a  private  society  in  a  little 
brick  house  that  seemed  to  lean  against  the  wall  of  a  large 
lying-in  hospital  in  the  West  End  of  London. 

At  the  moment  of  our  arrival  the  Matron  was  presiding 
in  the  drawing-room  over  a  meeting  of  a  Missionary  League 
for  the  Conversion  of  the  Jews,  so  we  were  taken  through  a 
narrow  lobby  into  a  little  back-parlour  which  overlooked, 
through  a  glass  screen,  a  large  apartment,  wherein  a  number 
of  young  women,  who  had  the  appearance  of  dressmakers, 
ladies'  maids,  and  governesses,  were  sewing  tiny  pieces  of 
linen  and  flannel  that  were  obviously  baby-clothes. 

There  were  no  carpets  on  the  floors  and  the  house  had  a 
slight  smell  of  carbolic.  The  tick-tick  of  sewing  machines 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  381 

on  ihe  other  side  of  the  screen  mingled  with  the  deadened 
sound  of  the  clapping  of  hands  in  the  room  overhead. 

After  a  while  there  was  rustle  of  dresses  coming  down  the 
bare  stairs,  followed  by  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  front 
door,  and  then  the  Matron  came  into  the  parlour. 

She  was  a  very  tall,  flat-bosomed  woman  in  a  plain  black 
dress,  and  she  seemed  to  take  in  our  situation  instantly. 
Without  waiting  for  Mildred's  explanation  she  began  to  ask 
my  name,  my  age,  and  where  I  came  from. 

Mildred  fenced  these  questions  as  well  as  she  could,  and 
then,  with  even  more  nervousness  than  ever,  made  the  same 
request  as  before. 

The  Matron  seemed  aghast. 

"Most  certainly  not,"  she  said.  "My  committee  would 
never  dream  of  such  a  thing.  In  the  interests  of  the  unfor- 
tunate girls  who  have  fallen  from  the  path  of  virtue,  as  well 
as  their  still  more  unfortunate  offspring,  we  always  make  the 
most  searching  inquiries.  In  fact,  we  keep  a  record  of  every 
detail  of  every  case.  Listen  to  this,"  she  added,  and  opening 
a  large  leather-bound  book  like  a  ledger,  she  began  to  read 
one  of  its  entries: 

"H.  J.,  aged  eighteen  years,  born  of  very  respectable 
parents,  was  led  astray  [that  was  not  the  word]  in  a  lonely 
road  very  late  at  night  by  a  sailor  who  was  never  afterwards 
heard  of  .  .  .  " 

But  I  could  bear  no  more,  and  rising  from  my  seat  I  fled 
from  the  room  and  the  house  into  the  noisy  street  outside. 

All  clay  long  my  whole  soul  had  been  in  revolt.  It  seemed 
to  me  that,  while  God  in  His  gracious  mercy  was  giving  me 
my  child  to  comfort  and  console  me,  to  uplift  and  purify  me, 
and  make  me  a  better  woman  than  I  had  been  before,  man, 
with  his  false  and  cruel  morality,  with  his  machine-made 
philanthropy,  was  trying  to  use  it  as  a  whip  to  punish  not 
only  me  but  Martin. 

But  that  it  should  never  do!  Never  as  long  as  I  lived!  I 
would  die  in  the  streets  first! 

Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  and  did  not  understand  myself,  and 
certainly  Mildred  did  not  understand  me.  When  she  rejoined 
me  in  the  street  we  turned  our  faces  homeward  and  were 
half  way  back  to  the  boarding-house  before  we  spoke  again. 

Then  she  said: 


382  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"I  am  afraid  the  other  institutions  will  be  the  same. 
They'll  all  want  references." 

I  answered  that  they  should  never  get  them. 

"But  your  money  will  be  done  soon,  my  child,  and  then 
what  is  to  become  of  you?" 

"No  matter!"  I  said,  for  I  had  already  determined  to 
face  the  world  myself  without  help  from  anybody. 

There  was  a  silence  again  until  we  reached  the  door  of 
our  boarding-house,  and  then  Mildred  said: 

"Mary,  your  father  is  a  rich  man,  and  however  much  you 
may  have  displeased  him  he  cannot  wish  you  to  be  left  to  the 
mercy  of  the  world — especially  when  your  tune  comes.  Let 
me  write  to  him  ..." 

That  terrified  me,  for  I  saw  only  one  result — an  open 
quarrel  between  my  father  and  my  husband  about  the  legiti- 
macy of  my  child,  who  would  probably  be  taken  away  from 
me  as  soon  as  it  was  born. 

So  taking  Mildred  by  the  arm,  regardless  of  the  observa- 
tion of  passers-by,  I  begged  and  prayed  and  implored  of  her 
not  to  write  to  my  father. 

She  promised  not  to  do  so,  and  we  parted  on  good  terms; 
but  I  was  not  satisfied,  and  the  only  result  of  our  day's 
journeying  was  that  I  became  possessed  of  the  idea  that  the 
whole  world  was  conspiring  to  rob  me  of  my  unborn  child. 

A  few  days  later  Mildred  called  again,  and  then  she  said: 

"I  had  another  letter  from  Father  Donovan  this  morning, 
Mary.  Your  poor  priest  is  broken-hearted  about  you.  He 
is  sure  you  are  in  London,  and  certain  you  are  in  distress, 
and  says  that  with  or  without  his  Bishop's  consent  he  is  com- 
ing up  to  London  to  look  for  you,  and  will  never  go  back 
until  you  are  found." 

I  began  to  suspect  Mildred.  In  the  fever  of  my  dread  of 
losing  my  child  I  convinced  myself  that  with  the  best  in- 
tentions in  the  world,  merely  out  of  love  for  me  and  pity  for 
my  position,  she  would  give  me  up — perhaps  in  the  very  hour 
of  my  peril. 

To  make  this  impossible  I  determined  to  cut  myself  off 
from  her  and  everybody  else,  by  leaving  the  boarding-house 
and  taking  another  and  cheaper  lodging  far  enough  away. 

I  was  encouraged  in  this  course  by  the  thought  of  my 
diminishing  resources,  and  though  heaven  knows  I  had  not 
too  many  comforts  where  I  was,  I  reproached  ^myself  for  spend- 


1  BECOME  A  MOTHER  383 

ing  so  much  on  my  own  needs  when  I  ought  to  be  economis- 
ing for  the  coming  of  my  child. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  one  morning  early  I  went  down 
to  the  corner  of  Oxford  Street  where  the  motor-omnibuses 
seem  to  come  and  go  from  all  parts  of  London. 

North,  south,  east,  and  west  were  all  one  to  me,  leading  to 
labyrinths  of  confused  and  interminable  streets,  and  I  knew 
as  little  as  a  child  which  of  them  was  best  for  my  purpose. 
But  chance  seems  to  play  the  greatest  part  in  our  lives,  and 
at  that  moment  it  was  so  with  me. 

I  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  when  a  motor- 
bus  labelled  "Bayswater  Road"  stopped  immediately  in 
front  of  me  and  I  stepped  into  it,  not  knowing  in  the  least 
why  I  did  so. 

Late  that  evening,  having  found  what  I  wanted,  I  returned 
in  the  mingled  mist  and  darkness  to  the  boarding-house  to 
pack  up  my  belongings.  That  was  not  difficult  to  do,  and 
after  settling  my  account  and  sending  young  John  for  a  cab 
I  was  making  for  the  door  when  the  landlady  came  up  to  me. 

"Will  you  not  leave  your  new  address,  my  dear,  lest  any- 
body should  call,"  she  said. 

"Nobody  will  call,"  I  answered. 

"But  in  case  there  should  be  letters?" 

"There  will  be  no  letters,"  I  said,  and  whispering  to  the 
driver  to  drive  up  Oxford  Street,  I  got  into  the  cab. 

It  was  then  quite  dark.  The  streets  and  shops  were  alight, 
and  I  remembered  that  as  I  crossed  the  top  of  the  Charing 
Cross  Road  I  looked  down  in  the  direction  of  the  lofty  build- 
ing in  which  Mildred's  window  would  be  shining  like  a  light- 
house over  Piccadilly. 

Poor  dear  ill-requited  Mildred!  She  has  long  ago  for- 
given me.  She  knows  now  that  when  I  ran  away  from  the 
only  friend  I  had  in  London  it  was  because  I  could  not  help  it. 

She  knows,  too,  that  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  and  that 
in  diving  still  deeper  into  the  dungeon  of  the  great  city,  in 
hiding  and  burying  myself  away  in  it,  I  was  asking  nothing 
of  God  but  that  He  would  let  me  live  the  rest  of  my  life — 
no  matter  how  poor  and  lonely — with  the  child  that  He  was 
sending  to  be  a  living  link  between  my  lost  one  and  me. 

In  the  light  of  what  happened  afterwards,  that  was  all  so 
strange,  and  oh,  so  wonderful  and  miraculous! 


384  THE   WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST   ME 

EIGHTY-FIFTH   CHAPTER 

MY  new  quarters  were  in  the  poorer  district  which  stands  at 
the  back  of  Bayswater. 

The  street  was  a  cul-de-sac  (of  some  ten  small  houses  on 
either  side)  which  was  blocked  up  at  the  further  end  by  the 
high  wall  of  a  factory  for  the  "  humanization "  of  milk,  and 
opened  out  of  a  busy  thoroughfare  of  interior  shops  like  a 
gully-way  off  a  noisy  coast. 

My  home  in  this  street  was  in  number  one,  and  I  had 
been  attracted  to  it  by  a  printed  card  in  the  semi-circular 
fan-light  over  the  front  door,  saying:  "A  ROOM  TO  LET 
FURNISHED.  ' ' 

My  room,  which  was  of  fair  size,  was  on  the  first  floor  and 
had  two  windows  to  the  street,  with  yellow  holland  blinds 
and  white  muslin  curtains. 

The  furniture  consisted  of  a  large  bed,  a  horse-hair  sofa, 
three  cane-bottomed  chairs,  a  chest  of  drawers  (which  stood 
between  the  windows),  and  a  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece, 
which  had  pink  paper,  cut  into  fanciful  patterns,  over  the 
gilt  frame,  to  keep  off  the  flies. 

The  floor  was  covered  with  linoleum,  but  there  were  two 
strips  of  carpet,  one  before  the  fire  and  the  other  by  the  bed ; 
the  walls  were  papered  with  a  bright  red  paper  represent- 
ing peonies  in  bloom;  and  there  were  three  pictures — a  por- 
trait of  a  great  Welsh  preacher  with  a  bardic  name 
("Dyfed"),  an  engraving  entitled  "Feed  my  Sheep" 
(showing  Jesus  carrying  a  lamb),  and  a  memorial  card  of 
some  member  of  the  family  of  the  house,  in  the  form  of  a 
tomb  with  a  weeping  angel  on  either  side. 

I  paid  five  shilling  a  week  for  my  room,  and,  as  this  in- 
cluded the  use  of  kettle,  cooking  utensils,  and  crockery,  I 
found  to  my  great  delight  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  that 
providing  for  myself  (tea,  bread  and  butter,  and  eggs  being 
my  principal  food)  I  had  only  spent  ten  shillings  altogether, 
which,  according  to  my  present  needs,  left  me  enough  for  my 
time  of  waiting  and  several  weeks  beyond. 

Every  morning  I  went  out  with  a  little  hand-bag  to  buy 
my  provisions  in  the  front  street ;  and  every  af tern  oon  I 
took  a  walk  in  the  better  part  of  Bayswater  and  even  into 
the  Park  (Hyde  Park),  which  was  not  far  off,  but  never 
near  Piccadilly,  or  so  far  east  as  Bloomsbury,  lest  I  should 
meet  Sister  Mildred  or  be  recognized  by  the  old  boarders. 

I  had  no  key  to  my  lodgings,  but  when  I  returned  home  I 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  385 

knocked  at  the  front  door  (which  was  at  the  top  of  a  short 
flight  of  steps  from  the  pavement)  and  then  a  string  was 
pulled  in  the  cellar-kitchen  in  which  the  family  of  my  land- 
lady lived,  whereupon  the  bolt  was  shot  back  and  the  door 
opened  of  itself. 

Finding  it  necessary  to  account  for  myself  here  as  at  the 
boarding-house,  I  had  adhered  to  my  former  name,  but  said  I 
was  the  widow  of  a  commander  lately  lost  at  sea,  which  was  as 
near  to  the  truth  as  I  dared  venture. 

I  had  also  made  no  disguise  of  the  fact  that  I  was  expecting 
a  child,  a  circumstance  which  secured  me  much  sympathy  from 
the  kind-hearted  souls  who  were  now  my  neighbours. 

They  were  all  womanly  women,  generally  the  wives  of  men 
working  in  the  milk  factory,  and  therefore  the  life  of  our 
street  was  very  regular. 

At  five  in  the  morning  you  heard  the  halting  step  of  the  old 
"knocker  up,"  who  went  up  and  down  the  street  tapping  at 
the  bedroom  windows  with  a  long  pole  like  a  fishing-rod.  A 
little  before  six  you  heard  the  clashing  of  many  front  doors 
and  the  echoing  footsteps  of  the  men  going  to  their  work.  At 
half -past  seven  you  heard  the  whoop  of  the  milkman  and  the 
rattling  of  his  cans.  At  half-past  eight  you  heard  the  little 
feet  of  the  children,  like  the  pattering  of  rain,  going  off  to  the 
Board  School  round  the  corner.  And  a  little  after  four  in 
the  afternoon  you  heard  the  wild  cries  of  the  juvenile  com- 
munity let  loose  from  lessons,  the  boys  trundling  iron  hoops 
and  the  girls  skipping  to  a  measured  tune  over  a  rope  stretched 
from  parapet  to  parapet. 

After  that,  our  street  hummed  like  a  bee-hive,  with  the 
women,  washed  and  combed,  standing  knitting  at  their  open 
doors  or  exchanging  confidences  across  the  areas  until  darkness 
fell  and  each  of  the  mothers  called  her  children  into  bed,  as  an 
old  hen  in  the  farmyard  clucks  up  her  chickens. 

These  good  creatures  were  very  kind  to  me.  Having  satisfied 
themselves  from  observation  of  my  habits  that  I  was  ' '  respect- 
able," they  called  me  "our  lady";  and  I  could  not  help  hear- 
ing that  I  was  "a  nice  young  thing,"  though  it  was  a  little 
against  me  that  I  did  not  go  to  church  or  chapel,  and  had 
confessed  to  being  a  Catholic — for  several  of  our  families 
(including  that  of  my  landlady)  were  members  of  the  Welsh 
Zion  Chapel  not  far  away. 

Such  was  the  life  of  the  little  human  cage  to  which  I  had 

2B 


386  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

confined  myself,  but  I  had  an  inner  life  that  was  all  my  own 
and  very  sweet  to  me. 

During  the  long  hours  of  every  day  in  which  I  was  alone  I 
occupied  myself  in  the  making  of  clothes  for  my  baby — buying 
linen  and  flannel  and  worsted,  and  borrowing  patterns  from 
my  Welsh  landlady. 

This  stimulated  my  tenderness  towards  the  child  that  was  to 
come,  for  the  heart  of  a  young  mother  is  almost  infantile,  and 
I  hardly  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  when  I  think  of  the 
childish  things  I  did  and  thought  and  said  to  myself  in  those 
first  days  when  I  was  alone  in  my  room  in  that  back  street 
in  Bayswater. 

Thus  long  before  baby  was  born  I  had  christened  her.  At 
first  I  wished  to  call  her  Mary,  not  because  I  cared  for  that 
name  myself,  but  because  Martin  had  said  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world.  In  the  end,  however,  I  called  her 
Isabel  Mary  (because  Isabel  was  my  mother's  name  and  she 
had  been  a  far  better  woman  than  I  was),  and  as  I  finished  my 
baby's  garments  one  by  one  I  used  to  put  them  away  in  their 
drawer,  saying  to  myself,  "That's  Isabel  Mary's  binder,"  or 
"Isabel  Mary's  christening-robe"  as  the  case  might  be. 

I  dare  say  it  was  all  very  foolish.  There  are  tears  in  my 
eyes  when  I  think  of  it  now,  but  there  were  none  then,  for 
though  there  were  moments  when,  remembering  Martin,  I  felt 
as  if  life  were  for  ever  blank,  I  was  almost  happy  in  my  poor 
surroundings,  and  if  it  was  a  cage  I  had  fixed  myself  in  there 
was  always  a  bird  singing  inside  of  it — the  bird  that  sang  in 
my  own  bosom. 

"When  Isabel  Mary  comes  everything  will  be  all  right,"  I 
used  to  think. 

This  went  on  for  many  weeks  and  perhaps  it  might  have 
gone  on  until  my  time  was  full  but  for  something  which, 
occurring  under  my  eyes,  made  me  tremble  with  the  fear  that 
the  life  I  was  living  and  the  hope  I  was  cherishing  were  really 
very  wrong  and  selfish. 

Of  my  landlady,  Mrs.  Williams,  I  saw  little.  She  was  a 
rather  hard  but  no  doubt  heavily-laden  woman,  who  had  to 
' '  do  "  for  a  swarm  of  children,  besides  two  young  men  lodgers 
who  lived  in  the  kitchen  and  slept  in  the  room  behind  mine. 
Her  husband  was  a  quiet  man  (a  carter  at  the  dairy)  whom  I 
never  saw  at  all  except  on  the  staircase  at  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
when,  after  winding  the  tall  clock  on  the  landing,  he  went 
upstairs  to  bed  in  his  stocking  feet. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  387 

But  the  outstanding  member  of  the  family  for  me  was  a 
shock-headed  girl  of  fourteen  called  Emmerjane,  which  was  a 
running  version  of  Emma  Jane. 

I  understood  that  Emmerjane  was  the  illegitimate  daughter 
of  Mrs.  "Williams 's  dead  sister,  and  that  she  had  been  born 
in  Carnarvon,  which  still  shimmered  in  her  memory  in  purple 
and  gold. 

Emmerjane  was  the  drudge  of  the  family,  and  I  first  saw 
her  in  the  street  at  dusk,  mothering  a  brood  of  her  little 
cousins,  taking  Hughie  by  one  hand  and  Katie  by  the  other 
and  telling  Gwennie  to  lay  hold  of  Davie  lest  he  should  be  run 
over  by  the  milk  vans. 

Afterwards  she  became  my  drudge  also — washing  my  floor, 
bringing  up  my  coals,  and  cleaning  my  grate,  for  sixpence  a 
week,  and  giving  me  a  great  deal  of  information  about  my 
neighbours  for  nothing. 

Thus  she  told  me,  speaking  broad  cockney  with  a  "Welsh 
accent,  that  the  people  opposite  were  named  Wagstaffe  and 
that  the  creaking  noise  I  heard  was  that  of  a  mangle,  which 
Mrs.  Wagstaffe  had  to  keep  because  her  husband  was  a 
drunkard,  who  stole  her  money  and  came  home  "a-Saturday 
nights,  when  the  public-houses  turned  out,  and  beat  her 
somethink  shocking"  though  she  always  forgave  him  the  next 
day  and  then  the  creaking  went  on  as  before. 

But  the  greatest  interest  of  this  weird  little  woman,  who  had 
a  premature  knowledge  of  things  a  child  ought  not  to  know, 
was  in  a  house  half-way  down  the  street  on  the  other  side, 
where  steam  was  always  coming  from  the  open  door  to  the 
front  kitchen. 

The  people  who  lived  there  were  named  Jones.  Mrs.  Jones 
"washed"  and  had  a  bed-ridden  old  mother  (with  two  shil- 
lings from  the  Guardians)  and  a  daughter  named  Maggie. 

Maggie  Jones,  who  was  eighteen,  and  very  pretty,  used  to 
work  in  the  dairy,  but  the  foreman  had  "tiken  advantage  of 
her"  and  she  had  just  had  a  baby. 

This  foreman  was  named  Owen  Owens  and  he  lived  at  the 
last  number  on  our  side,  where  two  unmarried  sisters  "kept 
house"  for  him  and  sat  in  the  "singing  seat"  at  Zion. 

Maggie  thought  it  was  the  sisters'  fault  that  Owen  Owens 
did  not  marry  her,  so  she  conceived  a  great  scheme  for 
"besting"  them,  and  this  was  the  tragedy  which,  through 
Emmerjane 's  quick  little  eyes  and  her  cockney- Welsh  tongue, 
came  to  me  in  instalments  day  by  day. 


388  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

When  her  baby  was  a  month  old  Maggie  dressed  it  up  ; '  fine ' ' 
and  took  it  to  the  photographers  for  its  ' '  card  di  visit. ' '  The 
photographs  were  a  long  time  coming,  but  when  they  came 
they  were  "heavenly  lovely"  and  Maggie  "cried  to  look  at 
them." 

Then  she  put  one  in  an  envelope  and  addressed  it  to  Owen 
Owens,  and  though  it  had  only  to  cross  the  street,  she  went  out 
after  dark  to  a  pillar-box  a  long  way  off  lest  anybody  should 
see  her  posting  it. 

Next  day  she  said,  ' '  He  '11  have  it  now,  for  he  always  comes 
home  to  dinner.  He  '11  take  it  up  to  his  bedroom,  look  you,  and 
stand  it  on  the  washstand,  and  if  either  of  those  sisters  touch 
it  he  '11  give  them  what 's  what. ' ' 

After  that  she  waited  anxiously  for  an  acknowledgment,  and 
every  time  the  postman  passed  down  our  street  her  pretty  pale 
face  would  be  at  the  door,  saying,  ' '  Anything  for  me  to-day  ? ' ' 
or  "Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  for  me,  postman?" 

At  length  a  letter  came,  and  Maggie  Jones  trembled  so 
much  that  she  dared  not  open  it,  but  at  last  she  tripped  up  to 
her  room  to  be  "all  of  herself,"  and  then  .  .  .  then  there  was 
a  "wild  screech,"  and  when  Emmerjane  ran  upstairs  Maggie 
was  stretched  out  on  the  floor  in  a  dead  faint,  clutching  in  her 
tight  hand  the  photograph  which  Owen  Owens  had  returned 
with  the  words,  written  in  his  heavy  scrawl  across  the  face — 
Maggie  Jones's  bastard. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  how  this  incident  affected  me. 
I  felt  as  if  a  moral  earthquake  had  opened  under  my  feet. 

What  had  I  been  doing?  In  looking  forward  to  the  child 
that  was  to  come  to  me  I  had  been  thinking  only  of  my  own 
comfort — my  own  consolation. 

But  what  about  the  child  itself? 

If  my  identity  ever  became  known — and  it  might  at  any 
moment,  by  the  casual  recognition  of  a  person  in  the  street- 
how  should  the  position  of  my  child  differ  from  that  of  this 
poor  girl? 

A  being  born  out  of  the  pale  of  the  law,  as  my  husband 
would  say  it  must  be,  an  outcast,  a  thing  of  shame,  without  a 
father  to  recognise  it,  and  with  its  mother's  sin  to  lash  its 
back  for  ever! 

When  I  thought  of  that,  much  as  I  had  longed  for  the  child 
that  was  to  be  a  living  link  between  Martin  and  me,  I  asked 
myself  if  I  had  any  right  to  wish  for  it. 

I  felt  I  had  no  right,  and  that  considering  my  helpless 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  389 

position  the  only  true  motherly  love  was  to  pray  that  my  baby 
might  be  still-born. 

But  that  was  too  hard.  It  was  too  terrible.  It  was  like 
a  second  bereavement.  I  could  not  and  would  not  do  it. 

"Never,  never,  never!"  I  told  myself. 

EIGHTY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

THINKING  matters  out  in  the  light  of  Maggie  Jones's  story,  I 
concluded  that  poverty  was  at  the  root  of  nearly  everything. 
If  I  could  stave  off  poverty  no  real  harm  could  come  to  my 
child. 

I  determined  to  do  so.  But  there  was  only  one  way  open 
to  me  at  present — and  that  was  to  retrench  my  expenses. 

I  did  retrench  them.  Persuading  myself  that  I  had  no  real 
need  of  this  and  that,  I  reduced  my  weekly  outlay. 

This  gave  me  immense  pleasure,  and  even  when  I  saw,  after 
a  while,  that  I  was  growing  thin  and  pale,  I  felt  no  self-pity  of 
any  sort,  remembering  that  I  had  nobody  to  look  well  for  now, 
and  only  the  sweet  and  glorious  duty  before  me  of  providing 
for  my  child. 

I  convinced  myself,  too,  that  my  altered  appearance  was 
natural  to  my  condition,  and  that  all  I  needed  was  fresh  air 
and  exercise,  therefore  I  determined  to  walk  every  day  in 
the  Park. 

I  did  so  once  only. 

It  was  one  of  those  lovely  mornings  in  early  spring,  when 
the  air  and  the  sky  of  London,  after  the  long  fog  and  grime 
of  winter,  seem  to  be  washed  by  showers  of  sunshine. 

I  had  entered  by  a  gate  to  a  broad  avenue  and  was  resting 
(for  I  was  rather  tired)  on  a  seat  under  a  chestnut  tree  whose 
glistening  sheaths  were  swelling  and  breaking  into  leaf,  when 
I  saw  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  on  horseback  coming 
in  my  direction. 

I  recognised  one  of  them  instantly.  It  was  Mr.  Vivian,  and 
a  beautiful  girl  was  riding  beside  him.  My  heart  stood  still, 
for  I  thought  he  would  see  me.  But  he  was  too  much  occupied 
with  his  companion  to  do  so. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  it's  killing,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  in  his  shrill 
voice,  and  with  his  monocle  in  his  mole-like  eye,  he  rode  past 
me,  laughing. 

After  that  I  took  my  walks  in  the  poorer  streets  behind 
Bayswater,  but  there  I  was  forced  back  on  my  old  problem, 
for  I  seemed  to  be  always  seeing  the  sufferings  of  children. 


390  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Thank  God,  children  as  a  whole  are  happy.  They  seem 
to  live  in  their  hearts  alone,  and  I  really  and  truly  believe 
that  if  all  the  doors  of  the  rich  houses  of  the  West  End  of 
London  were  thrown  open  to  the  poor  children  of  the  East 
End  they  would  stay  in  their  slums  and  alleys. 

But  some  of  them  suffer  there  for  all  that,  especially  the 
unfortunate  ones  who  enter  the  world  without  any  legal  right 
to  be  here,  and  I  seemed  to  be  coming  upon  that  kind  every- 
where. 

One  evening  I  saw  a  tiny  boy  of  five  sheltering  from  the 
rain  under  a  dripping  and  draughty  railway  arch,  and  cry- 
ing as  if  his  little  heart  would  break.  I  tried  to  comfort  him 
and  could  not,  but  when  a  rather  shame-faced  young  woman 
came  along,  as  if  returning  from  her  work,  he  burst  out  on 
her  and  cried : 

"Oh,  muwer,  she's  been  a-beating  of  me  awrful. " 

"Never  mind,  Johnny,"  said  the  young  woman,  kneeling  on 
the  wet  pavement  to  dry  the  child's  eyes.  "Don't  cry,  that's 
a  good  boy." 

It  needed  no  second  sight  to  look  into  the  heart  of  that 
tragedy,  and  the  effect  of  it  upon  me  was  to  make  me  curtail 
my  expenditure  still  further. 

Looking  back  on  those  days  I  cannot  but  wonder  that  I 
never  tried  to  find  employment.  But  there  was  one  delicate 
impediment  then — my  condition,  which  was  becoming  visible, 
I  thought,  to  people  in  the  street,  and  causing  some  of  them, 
especially  women,  to  look  round  at  me.  When  this  became 
painful  I  discontinued  my  walks  altogether,  and  sent  Emmer- 
jane  on  my  few  errands. 

Then  my  room  became  my  world. 

I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  newspaper.  And  knowing 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on,  beyond  the  surge  and  swell  of 
the  life  of  London  as  it  came  to  me  when  I  opened  my  window, 
I  had  now,  more  than  ever,  the  sense  of  living  in  a  dungeon  on 
a  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  sea. 

Having  no  exercise  I  ate  less  and  less.  But  I  found  a 
certain  joy  in  that,  for  I  was  becoming  a  miser  for  my  child's 
sake,  and  the  only  pain  I  suffered  was  when  I  went  to  my 
drawer,  as  I  did  every  day,  and  looked  at  my  rapidly 
diminishing  store. 

I  knew  that  my  Welsh  landlady  was  beginning  to  call  me 
close,  meaning  mean ;  but  that  did  not  trouble  me  in  the  least, 
because  I  told  myself  that  every  penny  I  saved  out  of  my 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  391 

own  expenses  was  for  my  child,  to  keep  her  from  poverty  and 
all  the  evils  and  injustices  that  followed  in  its  train. 

As  my  appointed  time  drew  near  my  sleep  was  much  broken ; 
and  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  I  heard  a 
solitary  footstep  going  down  the  street  I  would  get  up,  draw 
aside  one  of  my  blinds,  and  see  a  light  burning  in  some  bed- 
room window  opposite,  and  afterwards  hear  the  muffled  cry 
of  the  small  new  being  who  had  come  as  another  immigrant 
into  our  chill  little  world. 

But  I  made  no  arrangements  for  myself  until  my  Welsh 
landlady  came  up  to  my  room  one  day  and  asked  if  I  had 
settled  with  a  doctor.  When  I  answered  no,  she  held  up  her 
hands-  and  cried : 

"Good  gracious!  Just  as  I  thought.  Thee'st  got  to  lose 
no  time,  though."  , 

Happily  there  was  a  doctor  in  our  street  nearly  every  day, 
and  if  I  wished  it  she  would  call  him  up  to  me.  I  agreed  and 
the  doctor  came  next  morning. 

He  was  a  tall,  elderly  man  with  cold  eyes,  compressed  lips, 
and  a  sour  expression,  and  neither  his  manner  nor  his  speech 
gave  any  hint  of  a  consciousness  (which  I  am  sure  every  true 
doctor  must  have)  that  in  coming  to  a  woman  in  my  condition 
he  was  entering  one  of  the  sacred  chambers  of  human  life. 

He  asked  me  a  few  abrupt  questions,  told  me  when  he 
would  come  again,  and  then  spoke  about  his  fee. 

"My  fee  is  a  guinea  and  I  usually  get  it  in  advance,"  he 
said,  whereupon  I  went  to  my  drawer,  and  took  out  a  sov- 
ereign and  a  shilling,  not  without  a  certain  pang  at  seeing  so 
much  go  in  a  moment  after  I  had  been  saving  so  long. 

The  doctor  had  dropped  the  money  into  his  waistcoat  pocket 
with  oh!  such  a  casual  air,  and  was  turning  to  go,  when  my 
Welsh  landlady  said : 

"Her's  not  doing  herself  justice  in  the  matter  of  food, 
doctor." 

' '  Why,  what  do  you  eat  ? ' '  asked  the  doctor,  and  as  well  as 
I  could,  out  of  my  dry  and  parched  throat,  I  told  him. 

"Tut!  tut!  This  will  never  do,"  he  said.  "It's  your 
duty  to  your  child  to  have  better  food  than  that.  Something 
light  and  nourishing  every  day,  such  as  poultry,  fish,  chicken 
broth,  beef-tea,  and  farinaceous  foods  generally." 

I  gasped.    What  was  the  doctor  thinking  about? 

"Remember,"  he  said,  with  his  finger  up,  "the  health  of 
the  child  is  intimately  dependent  on  the  health  of  the  mother. 


392  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

When  the  mother  is  in  a  morbid  state  it  affects  the  compo- 
sition of  the  blood,  and  does  great  harm  to  the  health  of  the 
offspring,  both  immediately  and  in  after  life.  Don't  forget 
now.  Good  day!" 

That  was  a  terrible  shock  to  me.  In  my  great  ignorance  and 
great  love  I  had  been  depriving  myself  for  the  sake  of  my 
child,  and  now  I  learned  that  I  had  all  the  time  been  doing  it 
a  grave  and  perhaps  life-long  injury! 

Trying  to  make  amends  I  sent  out  for  some  of  the  expensive 
foods  the  doctor  had  ordered  me,  but  when  they  were  cooked 
I  found  to  my  dismay  that  I  had  lost  the  power  of  digesting 
them. 

My  pain  at  this  discovery  wras  not  lessened  next  day  when 
my  Welsh  landlady  brought  up  a  nurse  whom  I  had  asked  her 
to  engage  for  me. 

The  woman  was  a  human  dumpling  with  a  discordant  voice, 
and  her  first  interest,  like  that  of  the  doctor,  seemed  to  centre 
in  her  fee. 

She  told  me  that  her  usual  terms  were  a  guinea  for  the 
fortnight,  but  when  she  saw  my  face  fall  (for  I  could  not  help 
thinking  how  little  I  had  left)  she  said: 

"Some  ladies  don't  need  a  fortnight,  though.  Mrs.  Wag- 
staffe,  for  instance,  she  never  has  no  more  than  five  days, 
and  on  the  sixth  she 's  back  at  her  mangle.  So  if  five  will  do, 
ma'am,  perhaps  ten  and  six  won't  hurt  you." 

I  agreed,  and  the  nurse  was  rolling  her  ample  person  out  of 
my  room  when  my  Welsh  landlady  said: 

"But  her's  not  eating  enough  to  keep  a  linnet,  look  you." 

And  then  my  nurse,  who  was  what  the  doctor  calls  a  croaker, 
began  on  a  long  series  of  stories  of  ladies  who,  having  "let 
themselves  down ' '  had  died,  either  at  childbirth  or  soon  after- 
wards. 

"It's  after  a  lady  feels  it  if  she  has  to  nurse  her  baby,"  said 
the  nurse,  "and  I  couldn't  be  responsible  neither  for  you 
nor  the  child  if  you  don't  do  yourself  justice." 

This  was  a  still  more  terrible  possibility — the  possibility 
that  I  might  die  and  leave  my  child  behind  me.  The  thought 
haunted  me  all  that  day  and  the  following  night,  but  the 
climax  came  next  morning,  when  Emmerjane,  while  black- 
leading  my  grate,  gave  me  the  last  news  of  Maggie  Jones. 

Maggie 's  mother  had  been  ' '  a-naggin '  of  her  to  get  work, ' ' 
asking  if  she  had  not  enough  mouths  to  feed  "without  her 
bringin'  another." 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  393 

Maggie  had  at  first  been  afraid  to  look  for  employment, 
thinking  everybody  knew  of  her  trouble.  But  after  her 
mother  had  put  the  young  minister  from  Zion  on  to  her  to 
tell  her  to  be  "obejent"  she  had  gone  out  every  day,  whether 
the  weather  was  good  or  bad  or  "mejum. " 

This  had  gone  on  for  three  months  (during  which  Maggie 
used  to  stay  out  late  because  she  was  afraid  to  meet  her 
mother's  face)  until  one  wet  night,  less  than  a  week  ago,  she 
had  come  home  drenched  to  the  skin,  taken  to  her  bed, 
"sickened  for  somethink"  and  died. 

Three  days  after  Emmerjane  told  me  this  story  a  great 
solemnity  fell  on  our  street. 

It  was  Saturday,  when  the  children  do  not  go  to  school,  but, 
playing  no  games,  they  gathered  in  whispering  groups  round 
the  house  with  the  drawn  blinds,  while  their  mothers  stood 
bareheaded  at  the  doors  with  their  arms  under  their  aprons 
and  their  hidden  hands  over  their  mouths. 

I  tried  not  to  know  what  was  going  on,  but  looking  out  at  the 
last  moment  I  saw  Maggie  Jones's  mother,  dressed  in  black, 
coming  down  her  steps,  with  her  eyes  very  red  and  her  hard 
face  (which  was  seamed  with  labour)  all  wet  and  broken  up. 

The  "young  minister"  followed  (a  beardless  boy  who  could 
have  known  nothing  of  the  tragedy  of  a  woman's  life),  and 
stepping  into  the  midst  of  the  group  of  the  congregation  from 
Zion,  who  had  gathered  there  with  their  warm  Welsh  hearts 
full  of  pity  for  the  dead  girl,  he  gave  out  a  Welsh  hymn, 
and  they  sang  it  in  the  London  street,  just  as  they  had  been 
used  to  do  at  the  cottage  doors  in  the  midst  of  their  native 
mountains : 

"Bydd  myrdd  o  ryfeddodau 
Ar  doriad  boreu  wawr." 

I  could  look  no  longer,  so  I  turned  back  into  my  room,  but 
at  the  next  moment  I  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels  and  knew 
that  Maggie  Jones  was  on  her  way  to  her  last  mother  of  all — 
the  Earth. 

During  the  rest  of  that  day  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Maggie 's  child,  and  what  was  to  become  of  it,  and  next  morn- 
ing when  Emmerjane  came  up  she  told  me  that  the  "young 
minister"  was  "a-gettin'  it  into  the  'ouse." 

I  think  that  was  the  last  straw  of  my  burden,  for  my  mind 
came  back  with  a  swift  rebound  from  Maggie  Jones's  child  to 
my  own. 


394  THE   WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST   ME 

The  thought  of  leaving  my  baby  behind  now  terrified  and 
appalled  me.  It  brought  me  no  comfort  to  think  that  though 
I  was  poor  my  father  was  rich,  for  I  knew  that  if  he  ever 
came  to  know  of  my  child's  existence  he  would  hate  it  and 
east  it  off,  as  the  central  cause  of  the  downfall  of  his  plans. 

Yet  Martin's  child  alone,  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  world! 
It  could  not  and  must  not  be ! 

Then  came  a  fearful  thought.  I  fought  against  it.  I  said 
many  "Hail  Marys"  to  protect  myself  from  it.  But  I  could 
not  put  it  away. 

Perhaps  my  physical  condition  was  partly  to  blame.  Others 
must  judge  of  that.  It  is  only  for  me  to  say,  in  all  truth 
and  sincerity,  what  I  felt  and  thought  when  I  stood  (as 
every  woman  who  is  to  be  a  mother  must)  at  the  door  of  that 
dark  chamber  which  is  Life's  greatest  mystery. 

I  thought  of  how  Martin  had  been  taken  from  me,  as  Fate 
(perhaps  for  some  good  purpose  still  unrevealed)  had  led  me 
to  believe. 

I  thought  of  how  I  had  comforted  myself  with  the  hope  of 
the  child  that  was  coming  to  be  a  link  between  us. 

I  thought  of  the  sweet  hours  I  had  spent  in  making  my 
baby's  clothes;  in  choosing  her  name;  in  whispering  it  to 
myself,  yes,  and  to  God,  too,  every  night  and  every  morning. 

I  thought  of  how  day  by  day  I  had  trimmed  the  little  lamp 
I  kept  burning  in  the  sanctuary  within  my  breast  where  my 
baby  and  I  lived  together. 

I  thought  of  how  this  had  taken  the  sting  out  of  death  and 
victory  out  of  the  grave.  And  after  that  I  told  myself  that, 
however  sweet  and  beautiful,  att  this  had  been  selfishness  dnd 
1  must  put  it  away. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  child  itself,  who — conceived  in  sin 
as  my  Church  would  say,  disinherited  by  the  law,  outlawed 
by  society,  inheriting  my  physical  weaknesses,  having  lost 
one  of  its  parents  and  being  liable  to  lose  the  other — was  now 
in  danger  of  being  left  to  the  mercies  of  the  world,  banned 
from  its  birth,  penniless  and  without  a  protector,  to  become 
a  drudge  and  an  outcast  or  even  a  thief,  a  gambler,  or  a  harlot. 

This  was  what  I  thought  and  felt. 

And  when  at  last  I  knew  that  I  had  come  to  the  end  of  my 
appointed  time  I  knelt  down  in  my  sad  room,  and  if  ever  I 
prayed  a  fervent  prayer,  if  ever  my  soul  went  up  to  God  in 
passionate  supplication,  it  was  that  the  child  I  had  longed  for 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  395 

and  looked  forward  to  as  a  living  link  with  my  lost  one 
might  be  born  dead. 

"Oh  God,  whatever  happens  to  me,  let  my  baby  be  born 
dead — I  pray,  I  beseech  Thee." 

Perhaps  it  was  a  wicked  prayer.  God  knows.  He  will  be 
just. 

EIGHTY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

IT  was  Saturday,  the  seventh  of  June.  The  summer  had 
been  a  cold  one  thus  far;  the  night  was  chill  and  heavy  rain 
was  beating  against  the  window-pane. 

There  was  a  warm  fire  in  my  room  for  the  first  time  for 
several  months;  the  single  gas  jet  on  the  window  side  of  the 
mantelpiece  had  been  turned  low,  and  the  nurse,  in  list  slip- 
pers, was  taking  my  little  flannel  and  linen  garments  out  of 
the  chest  of  drawers  and  laying  them  on  the  flat  steel  fender. 

I  think  I  must  have  had  intervals  of  insensibility,  for  the 
moments  of  consciousness  came  and  went  with  me,  like  the 
diving  and  rising  of  a  sea-bird  in  the  midst  of  swelling  waves. 

At  one  such  moment  I  became  aware  that  the  doctor  and 
my  "Welsh  landlady,  as  well  as  my  nurse,  were  in  the  room,  and 
that  they  were  waiting  for  the  crisis  and  fearing  for  my  life. 

I  heard  them  talking  in  low  voices  which  made  a  drumming 
noise  in  my  ears,  like  that  which  the  sea  makes  when  it  is 
rolling  into  a  cave. 

"She's  let  herself  down  so  low,  pore  thing,  that  I  don't 
know  in  the  world  what's  to  happen  to  her." 

"As  God  is  my  witness,  look  you,  I  never  saw  anybody 
live  on  so  little." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  the  mother.  I'm  more  afraid  of  the 
child,  if  you  ask  me." 

Then  the  drumming  noise  would  die  out,  and  I  would 
only  hear  something  within  myself  saying: 

"Oh  God,  oh  God,  that  my  child  may  be  born  dead." 

At  another  moment  I  heard,  above  the  rattle  of  the  rain, 
the  creaking  of  the  mangle  in  the  cellar-kitchen  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street. 

At  still  another  moment  I  heard  the  sound  of  quarrelling  in 
the  house  opposite.  A  woman  was  screaming,  children  were 
shrieking,  and  a  man  was  swearing  in  a  thick  hoarse  voice. 

I  knew  what  had  happened — it  was  midnight,  the  "public- 
houses  had  turned  out,"  and  Mr.  Wagstaffe  had  come  home 
drunk. 


396  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

The  night  passed  heavily.  I  heard  myself  (as  I  had  done 
before)  calling  on  Martin  in  a  voice  of  wild  entreaty: 

"  Martin!     Martin!" 

Then  remembering- that  he  was  gone  I  began  again  to  pray. 
I  heard  myself  praying  to  the  Blessed  Virgin: 

"Oh,  Mother  of  my  God,  let  my  child    ..." 

But  a  voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  far  away  inter- 
rupted me. 

' '  Hush,  bach,  hush !    It  will  make  it  harder  for  thee. ' ' 

At  length  peace  came.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  running 
out  of  a  tempestuous  sea,  with  its  unlimited  loneliness  and 
cruel  depth,  into  a  quiet  harbour. 

There  was  a  heavenly  calm,  in  which  I  could  hear  the 
doctor  and  the  nurse  and  my  "Welsh  landlady  talking  together 
in  cheerful  whispers. 

I  knew  that  everything  was  over,  and  with  the  memory  of 
the  storm  I  had  passed  through  still  in  my  heart  and  brain, 
I  said: 

"Is  it  dead?" 

"Dead?"  cried  the  nurse  in  a  voice  several  octaves  higher 
than  usual.  ' '  Dear  heart  no,  but  alive  and  well.  A  beautiful 
little  girl!" 

"Yes,  your  baby  is  all  right,  ma'am,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
then  my  Welsh  landlady  cried: 

"Why  did'st  think  it  would  be  dead,  bach?  As  I  am  a 
Christian  woman  thee'st  got  the  beautifullest  baby  that  ever 
breathed. ' ' 

I  could  bear  no  more.  The  dark  thoughts  of  the  days 
before  were  over  me  still,  and  with  a  groan  I  turned  to  the 
wall.  Then  everything  was  wiped  out  as  by  an  angel's  wing, 
and  I  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

When  I  awoke  my  dark  thoughts  were  vanishing  away  like 
a  bad  dream  in  the  morning.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  gas 
had  been  put  out,  and  I  could  see  by  the  glow  on  the  peonies 
of  the  wall-paper  that  the  sun  was  shining  with  a  soft  red 
light  through  the  holland  blinds  of  my  windows. 

I  heard  the  sparrows  chirping  on  the  sills  outside ;  I  heard 
the  milkman  rattling  his  cans;  I  heard  the  bells  of  a  neigh- 
bouring church  ringing  for  early  communion. 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  held  my  breath  and  listened  to  the 
sounds  in  my  own  room.  I  heard  the  kettle  singing  over 
the  fire ;  I  heard  somebody  humming  softly,  and  beating  a  foot 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  397 

on  the  floor  in  time  to  the  tune ;  and  then  I  heard  a  low  yoice 
(it  was  Emmer jane's)  saying  from  somewhere  near  my  bed: 

"I  dunno  but  what  she's  awake.  Her  breathing  ain't 
a-goin'  now." 

Then  I  turned  and  saw  the  nurse  sitting  before  the  fire 
with  something  on  her  lap.  I  knew  what  it  was.  It  was 
my  child,  and  it  was  asleep.  In  spite  of  my  dark  thoughts 
my  heart  yearned  for  it. 

And  then  came  the  great  miracle. 

My  child  awoke  and  began  to  cry.  It  was  a  faint  cry,  oh! 
so  thin  and  weak,  but  it  went  thundering  and  thundering 
through  me.  There  was  a  moment  of  awful  struggle,  and 
then  a  mighty  torrent  of  love  swept  over  me. 

It  was  Motherhood. 

My  child !    Mine !    Flesh  of  my  flesh !    Oh  God !    Oh  God  I 

All  my  desire  for  my  baby's  death  to  save  it  from  the  pains 
of  life  was  gone,  and  my  heart,  starved  so  long,  throbbed  with 
tenderness.  I  raised  myself  in  bed,  in  spite  of  my  nurse's 
protest,  and  cried  to  her  to  give  me  my  baby. 

"Give  her  to  me.     Give  her  to  me." 

"By-and-by,  by-and-by,"  said  the  nurse. 

"Now,  now!     I  can  wait  no  longer." 

"But  you  must  take  some  food  first.  Emmer  jane,  give  her 
that  glass  of  milk  and  water." 

I  drank  the  milk  just  to  satisfy  them,  and  then  held  out 
my  arms  for  my  child. 

' '  Give  her  to  me — quick,  quick ! ' ' 

"Here  she  is  then,  the  jewel!" 

Oh!  the  joy  of  that  moment  when  I  first  took  my  baby  in 
my  arms,  and  looked  into  her  face,  and  saw  my  own  features 
and  the  sea-blue  eyes  of  Martin !  Oh  the  rapture  of  my  first 
eager  kiss ! 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  rough  with  my  little  cherub 
in  the  fervour  of  my  love,  for  she  began  to  cry  again. 

"There!  there!"  said  the  nurse.  "Be  good  now,  or  I 
must  take  baby  away." 

But  heaven  had  taught  me  another  lesson,  and  instantly, 
instinctively,  I  put  my  baby  to  my  breast.  Instantly  and 
instinctively,  too,  my  baby  turned  to  it  with  its  little  mouth 
open  and  its  little  fingers  feeling  for  the  place. 

"Oh  God!    My  God!     Oh  Mother  of  my  God!" 

And  then  in  that  happiness   that   is   beyond  all   earthly 


398  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

bliss — the  happiness  of  a  mother  when  she  first  clasps  her 
baby  to  her  breast — I  began  to  cry. 

I  had  not  cried  for  months — not  since  that  night  in  Elian 
which  I  did  not  wish  to  remember  any  more — but  now  my 
tears  gushed  out  and  ran  down  my  face  like  rain. 

I  cried  on  Martin  once  more — I  could  not  help  it.  And 
looking  down  at  the  closed  eyes  of  my  child  my  soul  gushed 
out  in  gratitude  to  God,  who  had  sent  me  this  for  all  I  had 
suffered. 

"Hush,  hush!  You  will  do  yourself  a  mischief  and  it  will 
be  bad  for  the  milk,"  said  the  nurse. 

After  that  I  tried  to  control  myself.  But  I  found  a  fierce 
and  feverish  delight  in  suckling  my  child.  It  seemed  as  if 
every  drop  my  baby  drew  gave  me  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a 
physical  joy — cooling  my  blood  and  my  brain  and  wiping 
out  all  my  troubles. 

Oh  mystery  of  mysteries!     Oh  miracle  of  miracles! 

My  baby  was  at  my  breast  and  my  sufferings  were  at  an  end. 

EIGHTY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

THAT  was  a  long,  long  day  of  happiness. 

It  was  both  very  long  and  very  short,  for  it  passed  like  a 
dream. 

What  wonderful  happenings  were  crowded  into  it! 

First  the  nurse,  from  the  dizzy  heights  of  her  greater  ex- 
perience and  superior  knowledge,  indulged  my  infantile 
anxieties  by  allowing  me  to  look  on  while  baby  was  being 
bathed,  and  rewarded  me  for  "being  good"  by  many  praises 
of  my  baby's  beauty. 

"I've  nursed  a-many  in  my  time,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't 
mind  saying  as  I've  never  had  a  bonnier  babby  on  my  knee. 
Look  at  her  legs  now,  so  white  and  plump  and  dimpled. 
Have  you  ever  seen  any  think  so  putty?" 

I  confessed  that  I  never  had,  and  when  nurse  showed  me 
how  to  fix  the  binder,  and  put  on  the  barrow-coat  without  dis- 
turbing baby  while  asleep,  I  thought  her  a  wonderful  woman. 

Emmerjane,  who  had  with  difficulty  been  kept  out  of  the 
room  last  night  and  was  now  rushing  breathlessly  up  and 
down  stairs,  wished  to  hold  baby  for  a  moment,  and  at  length 
out  of  the  magnificence  of  my  generosity  I  allowed  her  to  do 
so,  only  warning  her,  as  she  loved  her  life,  to  hold  tight  and 
not  let  baby  fall. 


I  BECOME  A  MOTHER  399 

"How'd  you  mean?"  said  the  premature  little  mother. 
"Me  let  her  fall?  Not  much!" 

Every  hour,  according  to  the  doctor's  orders,  I  gave  baby 
the  breast.  I  do  not  know  which  was  my  greatest  joy — to 
feast  my  eyes  on  her  while  she  sucked  and  to  see  her  little 
head  fall  back  with  her  little  mouth  open  when  she  had  had 
enough,  or  to  watch  her  when  she  stretched  herself  and  hic- 
coughed, and  then  grasped  my  thumb  with  her  little  tight 
fingers. 

Oh,  the  wild,  inexpressible  delight  of  it! 

Every  hour  had  its  surprise.  Every  few  minutes  had  their 
cause  of  wonder. 

It  rather  hurt  me  when  baby  cried,  and  I  dare  say  my  own 
foolish  lip  would  drop  at  such  moments,  but  when  I  saw  that 
there  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  only  calling  for 
her  food,  I  pleaded  with  nurse  to  let  me  give  her  the  breast 
again. 

The  sun  shone  all  day  long,  and  though  the  holland  window 
blinds  were  kept  down  to  subdue  the  light,  for  my  sake  and 
perhaps  for  baby's,  I  thought  my  room  looked  perfectly  beau- 
tiful. It  might  be  poor  and  shabby,  but  nights  of  angels  could 
not  have  made  it  more  heavenly  than  it  was  in  my  eyes  then. 

In  the  afternoon  nurse  told  me  I  must  take  some  sleep 
myself,  but  I  would  not  sleep  until  baby  slept,  so  she  had  to 
give  me  my  cherub  again,  and  I  sat  up  and  rocked  her  and 
for  a  while  I  sang — as  softly  as  I  could — a  little  lullaby. 

It  was  a  lullaby  I  had  learned  at  Nemi  from  the  Italian 
women  in  embroidered  outside  stays,  who  so  love  their  chil- 
dren ;  and  though  I  knew  quite  well  that  it  had  been  written 
for  the  Mother  of  all  Mothers,  who,  after  she  had  been  turned 
away  from  every  door,  had  been  forced  to  take  refuge  in  a 
stable  in  Bethlehem,  I  was  in  such  an  ecstasy  of  spiritual 
happiness  that  I  thought  it  no  irreverence  to  change  it  a 
little  and  to  sing  it  in  my  London  lodging  to  my  human  child. 

"Sleep,  little  baby,  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 
Sleep,  little  Queen,  I  am  bending  above  thee." 

I  dare  say  my  voice  was  sweet  that  day — a  mother's  voice 
is  always  sweet — for  when  Emmerjane,  who  had  been  out  of 
the  room,  came  back  to  it  with  a  look  of  awed  solemnity,  she 
said: 

' '  Well,  I  never  did !  I  thought  as  'ow  there  was  a '  angel 
a-eome  into  this  room." 


400  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

' '  So  there  is,  and  here  she  is, "  I  said,  beaming  down  on  my 
sleeping  child. 

But  the  long,  short,  blissful  day  came  to  an  end  at  last, 
and  when  night  fell  and  I  dropped  asleep,  there  were  two 
names  of  my  dear  ones  on  my  lips,  and  if  one  of  them  was 
the  name  of  him  who  (as  I  thought)  was  in  heaven,  the 
other  was  the  name  of  her  who  was  now  lying  in  my  arms. 

I  may  have  been  poor,  but  I  felt  like  a  queen  with  all  the 
riches  of  life  in  my  little  room. 

I  may  have  sinned  against  the  world  and  the  Church,  but 
I  felt  as  if  God  had  justified  me  by  His  own  triumphant  law. 

The  whole  feminine  soul  in  me  seemed  to  swell  and  throb, 
and  with  my  baby  at  my  breast  I  wanted  no  more  of  earth  or 
heaven. 

I  was  still  bleeding  from  the  bruises  of  Fate,  but  I  felt 
healed  of  all  my  wounds,  loaded  with  benefits,  crowned  with 
rewards. 

Four  days  passed  like  this,  varied  by  visits  from  the  doctor 
and  my  Welsh  landlady.  Then  my  nurse  began  to  talk  of 
leaving  me. 

I  did  not  care.  In  my  ignorance  of  my  condition,  and  the 
greed  of  my  motherly  love,  I  was  not  sorry  she  was  going  so 
soon.  Indeed,  I  was  beginning  to  be  jealous  of  her,  and 
was  looking  forward  to  having  my  baby  all  to  myself. 

But  nurse,  as  I  remember,  was  a  little  ashamed  and  tried 
to  excuse  herself. 

"If  I  hadn't  promised  to  nurse  another  lady,  I  wouldn't 
leave  you,  money  or  no  money,"  she  said.  "But  the  girl" 
(meaning  Emmerjane)  "is  always  here,  and  if  she  isn't  like 
a  nurse  she's  'andy. " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  shall  be  all  right,"  I  answered. 

On  the  fifth  day  my  nurse  left  me,  and  shocking  as  that 
fact  seems  to  me  now,  I  thought  little  of  it  then. 

I  was  entirely  happy.  I  had  nothing  in  the  world  except 
my  baby,  and  my  baby  had  nothing  in  the  world  except  me. 
I  was  still  in  the  dungeon  that  had  seemed  so  dreadful  to  me 
before — the  great  dungeon  of  London  to  one  who  is  poor  and 
friendless. 

But  no  matter!  I  was  no  longer  alone,  for  there  was  one 
more  inmate  in  my  prison-house — my  child. 


SIXTH  PART 
I  AM  LOST 

'Is  it  nothing  to  you,  ye  that  pass  by    .    .    .  f 
MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN 


I  hate  to  butt  in  where  I  may  not  be  wanted,  but  if  the 
remainder  of  my  darling's  story  is  to  be  understood  I  must 
say  what  was  happening  in  the  meant  ime  to  me. 

God  knows  there  was  never  a  day  on  which  I  did  not  think 
of  my  dear  one  at  home,  wondering  what  was  happening  to 
her,  and  whether  a  certain  dark  fact  which  always  lay  at  the 
back  of  my  mind  as  a  possibility  was  actually  coming  to  pass. 

But  she  would  be  brave — I  know  that  quite  well — and  I 
saw  plainly  that,  if  I  had  to  get  through  the  stiff  job  that  was 
before  me,  I  must  put  my  shadowy  fears  away  and  think  only 
of  the  dangers  I  was  sure  about. 

The  first  of  these  was  that  she  might  suppose  our  ship  was 
lost,  so  as  soon  as  we  had  set  up  on  old  Erebus  the  wooden 
lattice  towers  which  contained  our  long-distance  electric 
apparatus,  I  tried  to  send  her  that  first  message  from  the 
Antarctic  which  was  to  say  we  had  not  been  shipwrecked. 

It  was  a  thrilling  moment.  Exactly  at  the  stroke  of  mid- 
night on  January  21,  while  the  midnight  sun  was  shining 
with  its  dull  sullen  glow,  the  whole  of  our  company  having 
gathered  round,  the  wireless  man  prepared  to  despatch  my 
message. 

As  we  were  not  sure  of  our  machinery  I  had  drawn  up  the 
words  to  suit  any  place  into  which  they  might  fall  if  they 
missed  their  intended  destination: 

"South  Pole  Expedition  safe.  All  well.  Send  greetings 
to  dear  ones  at  home." 

For  some  forty  seconds  the  sparks  crackled  out  their  snappy 
signals  into  the  crisp  night  air,  and  then  the  settled  calm 
returned,  and  we  stood  in  breathless  silence  like  beings  on 
the  edge  of  a  world  waiting  for  the  answer  to  come  as  from 
another  planet. 

It  came.  After  a  few  minutes  we  heard  from  our  magnetic 

401  2C 


402  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

detector  the  faint  sound  of  the  S  signals,  and  then  we  broke 
into  a  great  cheer.  It  was  not  much,  but  it  was  enough ;  and 
while  our  scientific  staff  were  congratulating  themselves  that 
electric-wave  telegraphy  was  not  inhibited  by  long  distance, 
or  by  the  earth's  curvature  over  an  arc  of  a  great  circle,  I 
was  thinking  of  my  dear  one — that  one  way  or  another  my 
message  would  reach  her  and  she  would  be  relieved. 

Then  in  splendid  health  and  spirits — dogs,  ponies,  and 
men  all  A  1 — we  started  on  our  journey,  making  a  bee-line 
•for  the  Pole. 

Owing  to  the  heavy  weights  we  had  to  transport  our  prog- 
ress was  slow,  much  slower  than  we  had  expected ;  and  though 
the  going  was  fair  and  we  kept  a  steady  pace,  travelling  a 
good  deal  by  night,  it  was  not  until  the  end  of  March  that 
we  reached  Mount  Darwin,  which  I  had  fixed  on  for  the 
second  of  our  electric  power  stations. 

By  this  time  winter  was  approaching,  the  nights  were  be- 
ginning to  be  dark  and  cold,  and  the  altitude  (8000  ft.)  was 
telling  on  some  of  us. 

Nevertheless  our  second  installation  got  finished  about  the 
last  week  in  April,  and  again  we  gathered  round  (not  quite 
such  a  hearty  company  as  before)  while  the  wireless  man 
spoke  to  the  operator  we  had  left  on  Erebus. 

Again  the  electrical  radiations  went  crackling  into  space, 
and  again  we  gave  a  cheer  when  the  answer  came  back — all 
well  and  instruments  in  perfect  order. 

Then,  late  as  it  was,  we  began  on  the  last  stage  of  our 
journey,  which  we  knew  would  be  a  hard  one.  Three  hundred 
geographical  miles  in  front;  temperature  down  to  minus  40°  ; 
the  sun  several  weeks  gone,  and  nothing  before  us  but  thick- 
ening twilight,  cold  winds,  snow,  the  rare  aurora  and  the 
frequent  moon. 

But  the  worst  fact  was  that  our  spirits  were  low,  and  do 
what  I  would  to  keep  a  good  heart  and  cheer  up  the  splendid 
fellows  who  had  come  with  me,  I  could  not  help  feeling  the 
deepening  effect  of  that  sunless  gloom. 

In  spite  of  this,  I  broke  camp  on  April  25,  and  started 
straight  as  a  die  for  the  South. 

It  was  a  stiff  fight  over  the  upper  glacier  in  latitude  85, 
with  its  razor-shaped  ice,  full  of  snow-covered  crevasses,  and 
three  days  out  two  of  our  best  men  fell  into  one  of  the  worst 
of  them. 

I  saw  the  accident  from  a  dozen  yards  away,  and  running 


I  AM  LOST  403 

up  I  lay  on  my  stomach  and  shouted  down,  but  it  was  a  black 
bottomless  gulf  and  not  a  sound  or  a  sign  came  back  to  me. 

This  cast  a  still  deeper  gloom  on  our  company,  who  could 
not  be  cheered  up,  though  I  kept  telling  them  we  should  be  on 
the  great  plateau  soon,  please  God,  and  then  we  should  have 
a  clear  road  to  the  Pole. 

"We  were  not  much  better  on  top  though,  for  the  surface  was 
much  broken  up,  and  in  that  brewing  place  of  the  winds  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  but  surging  seas  of  cumulus  cloud  and 
rolling  waves  of  snow. 

The  Polar  march  was  telling  on  us  badly.  We  were  doing 
no  more  than  seven  miles  at  a  stretch.  So  to  help  my  ship- 
mates to  keep  up  their  spirits  (and  perhaps  to  give  a  bit  of  a 
"heise"  to  my  own)  I  had  to  sing  all  day  long — though  my 
darling  is  right  that  I  have  no  more  voice  than  a  corncrake. 

Sometimes  I  sang  ' '  Ramsey  Town, ' '  because  it  did  not  want 
much  music,  but  generally  "Sally's  the  gel  for  me,"  because 
it  had  a  rattling  chorus.  The  men  all  joined  in  (scientific 
experts  included),  and  if  the  angels  took  any  heed  of  us,  I 
think  it  must  have  touched  them  up  to  look  down  on  our  little 
company  of  puny  men  singing  away  as  we  trudged  through 
that  snowy  wilderness  which  makes  a  man  feel  so  small. 

But  man  can  only  do  his  best,  and  as  Father  Dan  (God  bless 
his  old  heart!)  used  to  say,  the  angels  can  do  no  more.  We 
were  making  middling  hard  work  of  it  in  the  88th  parallel, 
with  a  temperature  as  low  as  50  degrees  of  frost,  when  a 
shrieking,  blinding  blizzard  came  sweeping  down  on  us  fiom 
the  south. 

I  thought  it  might  blow  itself  out,  but  it  didn  't,  so  we  struck 
camp  in  a  broad  half -circle,  building  igloos  (snow  huts)  with 
their  backs  (like  rain-beaten  cattle)  to  the  storm. 

There  we  lay  nine  days — and  it  is  not  worth  while  now  to 
say  how  much  some  of  our  men  suffered  from  frozen  fingers, 
and  more  from  falling  spirits. 

Sometimes  I  heard  them  saying  (in  voices  that  were  in- 
tended to  be  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear)  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  built  winter  quarters  on  the  north  of  Darwin 
and  settle  there  until  the  return  of  summer  And  at  other 
times  I  heard  them  counting  the  distance  to  the  Pole — a  hun- 
dred geographical  miles,  making  twenty  days'  march  at  this 
season,  with  the  heavy  weights  we  had  to  carry,  and  the 
dwindling  of  our  dogs  and  ponies,  for  we  had  killed  a  lot 
of  them  for  food. 


404  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

But  I  would  not  give  in,  for  I  felt  that  to  go  back  without 
finishing  my  job  would  break  my  heart;  and  one  day  when  old 
Treacle  said,  "No  use,  guv'nor,  let's  give  it  best,"  I  flew  at 
him  like  a  hunted  tiger. 

AH  the  same  I  was  more  than  a  bit  down  myself,  for  there 
were  days  when,  death  was  very  near,  and  one  night  it  really 
broke  me  up  to  hear  a  big1  strapping  chap  saying  to  the  man 
who  shared  his  two-man  sack,  "I  shouldn't  care  a  whiff  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  wife  and  the  kiddies." 

God  knows  I  had  my  own  anchor  at  home,  and  sometimes 
it  had  a  devil  of  a  tog  at  me.  I  fought  myself  hard,  though, 
and  at  last  in  my  desire  to  go  on  and  my  yearning  to  go  back 
to  my  dear  one,  I  made  an  awful  proposal,  such  as  a  man  does 
not  much  like  to  think  of  after  a  crisis  is  over. 

"Shipmates,'7 1  said,  "it  isn't  exactly  my  fault  that  we  are 
here  in  the  middle  of  winter,  but  here  we  are,  and  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  I  am  going  forward,  and  those  who  want 
to  go  with  me  can  go.  But  those  who  don't  want  to  go  can 
stay;  and  so  that  no  one  may  have  it  on  his  conscience  that 
he  has  kept  his  comrades  back,  whether  by  weakness  or  by 
will,  I  have  told  the  doctor  to  serve  out  a  dose  of  something  to 
every  man,  that  he  may  end  it  whenever  he  wants  to." 

To  my  surprise  that  awful  proposal  was  joyfully  received; 
and  never  so  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forget  the  sight  of 
OTSullrran  going  round  the  broad  circle  of  my  shipmates  in 
the  bine  gloom  of  that  noonday  twilight  and  handing  some- 
thing to  every  one  of  them,  while  nobody  spoke,  and  Death 
seemed  to  look  us  in  the  face. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  incident  for  which  I  have  told  this 
story. 

I  could  not  get  a  wink  of  sleep  that  night  for  thinking  of 
the  brave  fellows  I  had  doomed  to  death  by  their  own  hands 
(for  that  was  what  it  came  to),  because  their  souls  were  starv- 
ing and  they  were  thinking  of  home. 

My  soul  was  starving  too,  and  whether  it  was  the  altitude 
(now  11,000  ft)  that  was  getting  into  my  head,  and  giving 
me  that  draught  in  the  brain  which  only  travellers  in  frozen 
regions  know,  or  the  Power  higher  than  Nature  which  speaks 
to  a  man  in  great  solitudes  when  fife  is  low,  I  cannot  say,  but 
as  God  is  my  witness,  I  was  hearing1  again  the  voices  of  my 
dear  ones  so  far  away. 

Sometimes  they  were  the  voices  of  my  old  people  in  Elian, 
but  more  frequently,  and  most  importunately,  it  was  Mary's 


I  AMLOST  406 

voice,  calling  me  by  my  name,  and  crying  to  me  for  help  as  if 
she  were  in  the  shadow  of  some  threatening  danger. 

"Martin!    Martin!    Martin!" 

When  this  idea  took  clear  possession  of  me — it  was  about 
three  am.  and  the  hurricane  was  yowling  like  a  wounded  dog 
— the  answering  thought  came  quick.  I  most  go  back,  No 
matter  at  what  cost  or  sacrifice — I  must  go  back. 

It  was  in  Tain  I  reflected  that  the  trouble  which  threatened 
my  darling  (whatever  it  was,  and  I  thought  I  knew)  might 
be  all  over  before  I  reached  her  side — I  must  go  back. 

And  even  when  I  reminded  myself  that  I  was  within  twenty 
days'  march  of  that  last  point  of  my  journey  which  was  to  be 
the  -crown  and  completion  of  it  all,  I  also  remembered  that 
my  dear  one  was  calling  me.  and  I  had  no  choke  but  to  obey. 

Next  morning,  in  the  first  light  of  the  dim  Antarctic  glow, 
I  crept  out  of  my  snow  hut  to  look  sooth  with  powerful 
glasses  in  order  to  make  sure  that  there  was  no  reason  why  I 
should  change  my  mind. 

There  was  none.  Although  the  snow  had  ceased  the  blizzard 
was  blowing  a  hundred  miles  an  hour  in  cutting  gusts,  so 
with  a  bleeding  heart  (and  yet  a  hot  one)  I  told  Treacle  to 
call  up  our  company,  and  when  they  stood  round  me  in  Hie 
shelter  of  my  hut  I  said: 

"Shipmates,  I  have  been  tl""fci"g  things  over  during  the 
night,  and  I  see  them  differently  now.  Nature  is  stronger 
than  man,  and  the  nature  that  is  inside  of  us  sometimes  hits 
us  harder  than  that  which  is  without.  I  think  it  is  that  way 
with  us  here,  and  I  believe  there  isn't  a  man  of  yon  who 
wouldn't  go  forward  with  me  if  he  had  nobody  to  think  of 
except  himself.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  /  have  somebody  to 
think  of,  too,  so  well  stick  together,  shipmates,  and  whatever 
regrets  there  may  be,  or  disappointments,  or  heart-breakings, 
well  .  .  .  well  go  back  home." 

I  think  it  says  something  for  the  mettle  my  men  were  made 
of  that  there  was  never  a  cheer  after  I  said  that,  for  they 
could  see  what  it  cost  me  to  say  it.  But  by  God,  there  was  a 
shout  when  I  added: 

"We've  drawn  a  blank  this  time,  boys,  but  well  draw  a 
winner  yet,  and  I  ask  you  to  swear  that  you  11  come  back  with 
me  next  year,  please  God,  to  finish  the  work  weVe  begun." 

Then  we  gripped  hands  in  that  desolate  place,  and  took 
our  solemn  oath,  and  God  knows  we  meant  to  keep  it 


It  did  not  take  long  to  strike  camp,  I  can  tell  you.    The 


406  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

men  were  bustling  about  like  boys  and  we  had  nothing  to 
think  of  now  but  the  packing  of  the  food  and  the  harnessing 
of  the  dogs  and  ponies,  for  we  were  leaving  everything  else 
behind  us. 

At  the  last  moment  before  we  turned  northward  I  planted 
the  Union  Jack  on  the  highest  hummock  of  snow,  and  when  we 
were  a  hundred  yards  off  I  looked  back  through  the  gloom 
and  saw  it  blowing  stiffly  in  the  wind. 

I  don't  think  I  need  tell  how  deeply  that  sight  cut  me,  but 
if  life  has  another  such  moment  coming  for  me  all  I  have  to 
say  is  that  I  hope  I  may  die  before  I  live  to  see  it — which  is 
Irish,  but  most  damnably  true. 

That  was  twelve  o'clock  noon  on  the  eighth  day  of  June; 
and  anybody  may  make  what  he  likes  of  what  I  say,  but  as 
nearly  as  I  can  calculate  the  difference  of  time  between  London 
and  where  we  were  in  the  88th  latitude  it  was  the  very  hour 
of  my  dear  one's  peril.  M.  C. 

[END  OP  MABTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

EIGHTY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

Two  weeks  passed  and  if  I  suffered  from  getting  up  too  soon 
I  was  never  conscious  of  it. 

Once  or  twice,  perhaps,  in  the  early  days  I  felt  a  certain 
dizziness  and  had  to  hold  on  for  a  moment  to  the  iron  rail  of 
my  bedstead,  but  I  was  too  much  occupied  with  the  tender 
joys  of  motherhood  to  think  much  about  myself. 

Bathing,  dressing,  undressing,  and  feeding  my  baby  were  a 
perpetual  delight  to  me. 

"What  a  joy  it  all  was! 

There  must  be  something  almost  animal,  even  voluptuous, 
in  mothers'  love,  for  there  was  nothing  I  liked  so  much  as 
having  baby  naked  on  my  knee  and  devouring  its  sweet  body 
all  over  with  kisses — putting  its  little  fat  hands  and  even  its 
little  fat  feet  into  my  mouth. 

There  must  be  something  almost  infantile,  too,  for  some- 
times after  I  had  talked  to  my  darling  with  a  flood  of  joyous 
chatter  I  would  even  find  myself  scolding  her  a  little,  and 
threatening  what  I  would  do  if  she  did  not  ' '  behave. ' ' 

Oh,  mysterious  laws  of  motherhood !  Only  God  can  fathom 
the  depths  of  them. 

It  was  just  as  if  sixteen  years  of  my  life  had  rolled  back, 


I  AM  LOST  407 

and  I  was  again  a  child  in  my  mother's  room  playing  with 
my  dolls  under  the  table.  Only  there  was  something  so 
wonderful  now  in  the  sweet  eyes  that  looked  up  at  me,  that  at 
certain  moments  I  would  fall  into  a  long  reverie  and  my  heart 
would  be  full  of  adoration. 

What  lengths  I  went  to! 

It  was  the  height  of  the  London  season  when  baby  came; 
and  sometimes  at  night,  looking  through  my  window,  I  saw  the 
tail-end  of  the  long  queue  of  carriages  and  electric  broughams 
which  stretched  to  the  end  of  the  street  I  lived  in,  from  the 
great  houses  fronting  the  Park  where  balls  and  receptions 
were  being  held  until  the  early  hours  of  morning.  But  I 
never  envied  the  society  ladies  they  were  waiting  for.  On  the 
contrary  I  pitied  them,  remembering  they  were  childless 
women  for  the  most  part  and  thinking  their  pleasures  were 
hollow  as  death  compared  with  mine. 

I  pitied  the  rich  mothers  too — the  mothers  who  banish 
their  babies  to  nurseries  to  be  cared  for  by  servants,  and  I 
thought  how  much  more  blessed  was  the  condition  of  poor 
mothers  like  myself  who  kept  all  that  sweetness  to  themselves. 

How  happy  I  was!  No  woman  coming  into  a  fortune  was 
ever  so  happy.  I  sang  all  day  long.  Sometimes  it  was  the 
sacred  music  of  the  convent  in  which  each  note,  with  its  own 
glory  of  sound,  wraps  one's  heart  round  as  with  a  rainbow, 
but  more  frequently  it  was  "Ramsey  Town"  or  "Sally's  the 
gel  for  me,"  which  were  only  noisy  nonsense  but  dear  to  me 
by  such  delicious  memories. 

My  neighbours  would  come  to  their  doors  to  listen,  and 
when  I  had  stopped  I  would  hear  them  say: 

"Our  lady  is  a  'appy  'eart,  isn't  she?" 

I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  so  happy  that  my  looks 
returned  to  me,  though  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  until  one 
morning,  after  standing  a  moment  at  the  window,  I  heard 
somebody  say: 

"Our  lady  seems  to  be  prettier  than  ever  now  her  baby 
has  come." 

I  should  not  have  been  a  woman  if  I  could  have  resisted 
that,  so  I  ran  to  the  glass  to  see  if  it  was  true,  and  it  was. 

The  ugly  lines  that  used  to  be  in  my  cheeks  had  gone,  my 
hair  had  regained  its  blue-black  lustre,  and  my  eyes  had 
suddenly  become  bright  like  a  darkened  room  when  the 
shutters  are  opened  and  the  sunshine  streams  into  it. 

But  the  coming  of  baby  did  better  for  me  than  that.     It 


408  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

brought  me  back  to  God,  before  whom  I  now  felt  so  humble 
and  so  glad,  because  he  had  transformed  the  world  for  me. 

Every  Catholic  will  know  why  I  could  not  ask  for  the 
benediction  of  the  Church  after  childbirth;  but  he  will  also 
know  why  I  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  to  have  my  baby  bap- 
tized at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  It  was  not  that  I  feared 
her  death  (I  never  thought  of  that  in  those  days),  but 
because  I  lived  in  dread  of  the  dangers  which  had  darkened 
my  thoughts  before  she  was  born. 

So  when  baby  was  nearly  a  fortnight  old  I  wrote  to  the 
Rector  of  a  neighbouring  Catholic  Church  asking  when  I 
might  bring  her  to  be  baptized,  and  he  sent  me  a  printed 
reply,  giving  the  day  and  hour,  and  enclosing  a  card  to  be 
fillled  up  with  her  name  and  all  other  particulars. 

"What  a  day  of  joy  and  rapture  was  that  of  my  baby's 
baptism!  I  was  up  with  the  sun  on  the  morning  appointed 
to  take  her  to  church  and  spent  hours  and  hours  in  dressing  her. 

How  lovely  she  looked  when  I  had  finished!  I  thought 
she  was  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world,  sweeter  than  a  rose- 
bud under  its  sparkling  web  of  dew  when  the  rising  sun  is 
glistening  on  it. 

After  I  had  put  on  all  the  pretty  clothes  I  had  prepared  for 
her  before  she  was  born — the  christening  robe  and  the  pelisse 
and  the  knitted  bonnet  with  its  pink  ribbons  and  the  light 
woollen  veil — I  lifted  her  up  to  the  glass  to  look  at  herself, 
being  such  a  child  myself  and  so  wildly,  foolishly  happy. 

"That  old  Rector  won't  see  anything  equal  to  her  this 
summer  morning  anyway,"  I  thought. 

And  then  the  journey  to  church! 

I  have  heard  that  unmarried  mothers,  going  out  for  the 
first  time  after  their  confinement,  feel  ashamed  and  confused, 
as  if  every  passer-by  must  know  their  shameful  secret.  I  was 
a  kind  of  unmarried  mother  myself,  God  help  me,  but  I  had 
no  such  feeling.  Indeed  I  felt  proud  and  gay,  and  when  I 
sailed  out  with  my  baby  in  my  arms  I  thought  all  the  people 
in  our  street  were  looking  at  me,  and  I  am  sure  I  wanted  to 
say  "Good  morning"  to  everybody  I  met  on  my  way. 

The  church  was  not  in  a  joyous  quarter.  It  stood  on  the 
edge  of  a  poor  and  very  populous  district,  with  a  flaunting 
public-house  immediately  opposite.  "When  I  got  to  it  I  found 
a  number  of  other  mothers  (all  working  women),  with  their 
babies  and  the  godfathers  and  godmothers  they  had  provided 
for  them,  waiting  at  the  door. 


I  AM  LOST  409 

At  this  sight  I  felt  very  stupid,  for  I  had  been  thinking  so 
much  about  other  things  (some  of  them  vain  enough  perhaps) 
that  I  had  forgotten  the  necessity  for  sponsors ;  and  I  do  not 
know  what  I  should  have  done  at  that  last  moment  if  the 
sacristan  had  not  come  to  my  relief — finding  me  two  old 
people  who,  for  a  fee  of  a  shilling  each,  were  willing  to  stand 
godmother  and  godfather  to  my  darling. 

Then  the  priest  came  out  of  the  church  in  his  white  surplice 
and  stole,  and  we  all  gathered  in  the  porch  for  the  preliminary 
part  of  the  sacrament. 

"What  an  experience  it  was !  Never  since  my  marriage  had 
I  been  in  a  state  of  such  spiritual  exaltation. 

The  sacristan,  showing  me  some  preference,  had  put  me  in 
the  middle  of  the  row,  immediately  in  front  of  the  priest,  so 
what  happened  to  the  other  children  I  do  not  know,  having 
eyes  and  ears  for  nothing  but  the  baptism  of  my  own  baby. 

There  were  some  mistakes,  but  they  did  not  trouble  me, 
although  one  was  a  little  important. 

When  the  priest  said,  "What  name  give  you  this  child?" 
I  handed  the  Rector's  card  to  the  sacristan,  and  whispered 
"Isabel  Mary"  to  the  godmother,  but  the  next  thing  I  heard 
was: 

"Mary  Isabel,  what  dost  thou  ask  of  the  Church  of  God?" 

But-  what  did  it  matter?  Nothing  mattered  except  one 
thing — that  my  darling  should  be  saved  by  the  power  of  the 
Holy  Sacrament  from  the  dark  terrors  which  threatened  her. 

Oh.  it  is  a  fearful  and  awful  thing,  the  baptism  of  a  child, 
if  you  really  and  truly  believe  in  it.  And  I  did — from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  and  soul  I  believed  in  it  and  trusted  it. 

In  my  sacred  joy  I  must  have  cried  nearly  all  the  time,  for 
I  had  taken  baby's  bonnet  off,  I  remember,  and  holding  it  to  my 
mouth  I  found  after  a  while  that  I  was  wetting  it  with  my 
tears. 

When  the  exorcisms  were  over,  the  priest  laid  the  end  of  his 
stole  over  baby's  shoulder  and  led  her  (as  our  prayer  books 
say)  into  the  church,  and  we  all  followed  to  the  baptistery, 
where  I  knelt  immediately  in  front  of  the  font,  with  the  old 
godmother  before  me,  the  other  mothers  on  either  side,  and 
a  group  of  whispering  children  behind. 

The  church  was  empty,  save  for  two  charwomen  who  were 
sweeping  the  floor  of  the  nave  somewhere  up  by  the  dark  and 
silent  altar ;  and  when  the  sacristan  closed  the  outer  door  there 


410  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

was  a  solemn  hush,  which  was  broken  only  by  the  priest's 
voice  and  the  godparents'  muttered  responses. 
'Mary  Isabel,  dost  thou  renounce  Satan?" 
'I  do  renounce  him." 
'And  all  his  works?" 
'I  do  renounce  them." 
'And  all  his  pomps?" 
'I  do  renounce  them." 

The  actual  baptism  was  like  a  prayer  to  me.  I  am  sure  my 
whole  soul  went  out  to  it.  And  though  I  may  have  been  a 
sinful  woman  unworthy  to  be  churched,  I  know,  and  God 
knows,  that  no  chaste  and  holy  nun  ever  prayed  with  a  purer 
heart  than  I  did  then,  kneeling  there  with  my  baby's  bonnet 
to  my  mouth. 

"Mary  Isabel,  I  baptize  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father  4« 
and  of  the  Son  4-  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.*" 

Except  that  baby  cried  a  little  when  the  water  was  poured 
on  her  head  (as  she  had  cried  when  the  salt  was  put  on  her 
tongue),  I  knew  no  more  after  that  until  I  saw  the  candle  in 
the  godfather's  hand  (which  signified  that  my  child  had  been 
made  a  Child  of  Light)  and  heard  the  priest  say : 

"Go  in  peace  and  the  Lord  be  with  thee." 
Then  I  awoke  as  from  a  trance.    There  was  a  shuffling  of 
feet.    The  priest  was  going  away.    The  solemn  rite  was  at  an 
end. 

I  rose  from  my  knees,  put  a  little  money  in  the  plate  which 
the  sacristan  held  out  to  me,  gave  a  shilling  to  each  of  the  two 
old  sponsors,  took  baby  back  into  my  arms,  and  sat  down 
in  a  pew  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  veil. 

The  spiritual  exaltation  which  had  sustained  me  lasted  until 
I  reached  the  street  where  the  other  mothers  and  their  friends 
were  laughing  and  joking,  in  voices  that  had  to  be  pitched 
high  over  the  rattle  of  the  traffic,  about  going  to  the  house 
opposite  to  "wet  the  baby's  head." 

But  I  think  something  of  the  celestial  light  of  the  sacrament 
must  have  been  on  my  face  still  when  I  reached  home,  for  I 
remember  that  as  I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  waited  for  the 
rope  from  the  kitchen  to  open  it,  I  heard  one  of  my  neighbours 
say: 

"Our  lady  has  taken  a  new  lease  of  life,  hasn't  she?" 

I  thought  I  had — a  great  new  lease  of  physical  and  spiritual 
life. 

But  how  little  did  I  know  what  Fate  had  in  store  for  me ! 


I  AM  LOST  411 

NINETIETH  CHAPTER 

I  WAS  taking  off  baby's  outdoor  things  when  my  Welsh  land- 
lady came  np  to  ask  how  I  had  got  on,  and  after  I  had  told 
her  she  said : 

"And  now  thee'st  got  to  get  the  jewel  registered.*' 

"Registered?" 

"Within  three  weeks.    It's  the  law,  look  yon." 

That  was  the  first  thing  that  frightened  me.  I  had  filled 
up  truthfully  enough  the  card  which  the  Rector  had  sent  me, 
because  I  knew  that  the  register  of  my  Church  must  be  as 
sacred  as  its  confessional. 

But  a  public  declaration  of  my  baby's  birth  and  parentage 
seemed  to  be  quite  another  matter — charged  with  all  the  dan- 
gers to  me,  to  Martin,  and  above  all  to  my  child,  which  had 
overshadowed  my  life  before  she  was  born. 

More  than  once  I  felt  tempted  to  lie,  to  make  a  false  declara- 
tion, to  say  that  Martin  had  been  my  husband  and  Isabel  was 
my  legitimate  child. 

But  at  length  I  resolved  to  speak  the  truth,  the  plain  truth, 
telling  myself  that  God's  law  was  above  man's  law,  and  I  had 
no  right  to  be  ashamed. 

In  this  mood  I  set  off  for  the  Registry  Office.  It  was  a  long 
way  from  where  I  lived,  and  carrying  baby  in  my  arms  I  was 
tired  when  I  got  there. 

I  found  it  to  be  a  kind  of  private  house,  with  an  open  vesti- 
bule and  a  black-and-white  enamelled  plate  on  the  door-post, 
saying  "Registry  of  Births  and  Deaths." 

In  the  front  parlour  (which  reminded  me  of  Mr.  Curphy's 
office  in  Holm  town)  there  was  a  counter  by  the  door  and  a 
large  table  covered  with  papers  in  the  space  within. 

Two  men  sat  at  this  table,  an  old  one  and  a  young  one,  and 
I  remember  that  I  thought  the  old  one  must  have  been  reading 
aloud  from  a  newspaper  which  he  held  open  in  his  hand,  for  as 
I  entered  the  young  one  was  saying: 

"Extraordinary!  Perfectly  extraordinary!  And  every- 
body thought  they  were  lost,  too!" 

In  the  space  between  the  door  and  the  counter  two  women 
were  waiting.  Both  were  poor  and  obviously  agitated.  One 
had  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  when  it  whimpered  for  its  food 
she  unbuttoned  her  dress  and  fed  it  openly.  The  other  woman, 
whose  eyes  were  red  as  if  she  had  been  crying,  wore  a  coloured 


412  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

straw  hat  over  which,  in  a  pitiful  effort  to  assume  black,  she 
had  stretched  a  pennyworth  of  cheap  crepe. 

In  his  own  good  time  the  young  man  got  up  to  attend  to 
them.  He  was  a  very  ordinary  young  clerk  in  a  check  suit, 
looking  frankly  bored  by  the  dull  routine  of  his  daily  labour, 
and  palpably  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  every  day  and  hour 
of  his  life  he  was  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  stormiest  places 
of  the  soul. 

Opening  one  of  two  registers  which  lay  on  the  counter  (the 
Register  of  Births)  he  turned  first  to  the  woman  with  the 
child.  Her  baby,  a  boy,  was  illegitimate,  and  in  her  nervous- 
ness she  stumbled  and  stammered,  and  he  corrected  her  sharply. 

Then  opening  the  other  register  (the  Register  of  Deaths) 
he  attended  to  the  woman  in  the  crepe.  She  had  lost  her  little 
girl,  two  years  old,  and  produced  a  doctor's  certificate.  While 
she  gave  the  particulars  she  held  a  soiled  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth  as  if  to  suppress  a  sob,  but  the  young  clerk's  composure 
remained  undisturbed. 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  the  agitation  of  the  two  poor  women 
that  made  me  nervous,  but  when  they  were  gone  and  my  turn 
had  come,  I  was  hot  and  trembling. 

The  young  clerk,  however,  who  was  now  looking  at  me  for 
the  first  time,  had  suddenly  become  respectful.  With  a  bow 
and  a  smile  he  asked  me  if  I  wished  to  register  my  child,  and 
when  I  answered  yes  he  asked  me  to  be  good  enough  to  step 
up  to  the  counter. 

' '  And  what  is  your  baby 's  name,  please  ? "  he  asked. 

I  told  him.  He  dipped  his  pen  in  his  metal  ink-pot,  shook 
some  drops  back,  made  various  imaginary  flourishes  over  his 
book  and  wrote: 

"Mary  Isabel." 

"And  now,"  he  said,  with  another  smile,  "the  full  name, 
profession,  and  place  of  residence  of  the  father." 

I  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  making  a  call  on  my 
resolution,  I  said: 

"Martin  Conrad,  seaman,  deceased." 

The  young  clerk  looked  up  quickly. 

"Did  you  say  Martin  Conrad,  ma'am?"  he  asked,  and  as 
well  as  I  could  for  a  click  in  my  throat  I  answered : 

"Yes." 

He  paused  as  if  thinking;  then  with  the  same  flourish  as 
before  he  wrote  that  name  also,  and  after  he  had  done  so,  he 


I  AM  LOST  413 

twisted  his  face  about  to  the  old  man,  Avho  was  sitting  behind 
him,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  not  meant  to  reach  me : 

"Extraordinary  coincidence,  isn't  it?" 

"Extraordinary!"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  lowered  his 
newspaper  and  was  looking  across  at  me  over  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles. 

"And  now,"  said  the  young  clerk,  "your  own  name  and 
your  maiden  name  if  you  please." 

"Mary  O'Neill." 

The  young  clerk  looked  up  at  me  again.  I  was  holding  baby 
on  my  left  arm  and  I  could  see  that  his  eye  caught  niy  wedding 
ring. 

' '  Mary  Conrad,  maiden  name  0  'Neill,  I  presume  ?  "  he  said. 

I  hesitated  once  more.  The  old  temptation  was  surging  back 
upon  me.  But  making  a  great  pull  on  my  determination  to 
tell  the  truth  (or  what  I  believed  to  be  the  truth)  I  answered: 

"No,  Mary  O'Neill  simply." 

"Ah!"  said  the  young  clerk,  and  I  thought  his  manner 
changed  instantly. 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes  while  the  young  clerk 
filled  up  his  form  and  made  the  copy  I  was  to  carry  away. 

I  heard  the  scratching  of  the  young  clerk 's  pen,  the  crinkling 
of  the  old  man's  newspaper,  the  hollow  ticking  of  a  round 
clock  on  the  wall,  the  dull  hum  of  the  traffic  in  the  streets,  and 
the  thud-thud-thudding  in  my  own  bosom. 

Then  the  entry  was  read  out  to  me  and  I  was  asked  to  sign  it. 

"Sign  here,  please,"  said  the  young  clerk  in  quite  a  different 
tone,  pointing  to  a  vacant  line  at  the  bottom  of  the  book,  and 
I  signed  with  a  trembling  hand  and  a  feeling  of  only  partial 
consciousness. 

I  hardly  know  what  happened  after  that  until  I  was  stand- 
ing in  the  open  vestibule,  settling  baby  on  my  arm  afresh  for 
my  return  journey,  and  telling  myself  that  I  had  laid  a  stigma 
upon  my  child  which  would  remain  with  her  as  long  as  she 
lived. 

It  was  a  long,  long  way  back,  I  remember,  and  when  I 
reached  home  (having  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  nor 
at  anything  or  anybody,  though  I  felt  as  if  everybody  had 
been  looking  at  me)  I  had  a  sense  of  dimness  of  sight  and  of 
aching  in  the  eyeballs. 

I  did  not  sing  very  much  that  day,  and  I  thought  baby  was 
rather  restless. 

Towards  nightfall  I  had  a  startling  experience. 


414 

I  was  preparing  Isabel  for  bed,  when  I  saw  a  red  flush,  like 
a  rash,  down  the  left  side  of  her  face. 

At  first  I  thought  it  would  pass  away,  but  when  it  did  not 
I  called  my  Welsh  landlady  upstairs  to  look  at  it. 

"Do  you  see  something  like  a  stain  on  baby's  face?"  I 
asked,  and  then  waited  breathlessly  for  her  answer. 

"No.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Well,"  she  said,  "now  that 
thee'st  saying  so  .  .  .  perhaps  it's  a  birthmark." 

"A  birthmark!" 

"Did'st  strike  thy  face  against  anything  when  baby  was 
coming!" 

I  made  some  kind  of  reply,  I  hardly  know  what,  but  the  truth, 
or  what  I  thought  to  be  the  truth,  flashed  on  me  in  a  moment. 

Eemembering  my  last  night  at  Castle  Raa,  and  the  violent 
scene  which  had  occurred  there,  I  told  myself  that  the  flush  on 
baby's  face  was  the  mark  of  my  husband's  hand  which,  making 
no  impression  upon  me,  had  been  passed  on  to  my  child,  and 
would  remain  with  her  to  the  end  of  her  life,  as  the  brand  of 
her  mother's  shame  and  the  sign  of  what  had  been  called  her 
bastardy. 

How  I  suffered  at  the  sight  of  it!  How  time  after  time 
that  night  I  leaned  over  my  sleeping  child  to  see  if  the  mark 
had  passed  away !  How  again  and  again  I  knelt  by  her  side  to 
pray  that  if  sin  of  mine  had  to  be  punished  the  punishment 
might  fall  on  me  and  not  on  my  innocent  babe ! 

At  last  I  remembered  baby's  baptism  and  told  myself  that 
if  it  meant  anything  it  meant  that  the  sin  in  which  my  child 
had  been  born,  the  sin  of  those  who  had  gone  before  her  (if  sin 
it  was),  had  been  cast  out  of  her  soul  with  the  evil  spirits 
which  had  inspired  them. 

"This  sign  of  the  Holy  Cross  Hh  which  we  make  upon  her 
forehead  do  thou.  accursed  devil,  never  dare  to  violate." 

God's  law  had  washed  my  darling  white!  What  could 
man's  law — his  proud  but  puny  morality — do  to  injure  her? 
It  could  do  nothing! 

That  comforted  me.  When  I  looked  at  baby  again  the 
flush  had  gone  and  I  went  to  bed  quite  happy. 

NINETY-FIRST  CHAPTER 

I  THINK  it  must  have  been  the  morning  of  the  next  day  when 
the  nurse  who  had  attended  me  in  my  confinement  came  to  see 
how  I  was  going  along. 


I  AM  LOST  415 

I  told  her  of  the  dimness  of  my  sight  and  the  aching  of  my 
eyeballs,  whereupon  she  held  up  her  hands  and  cried: 

"There  now!  What  did  I  tell  you!  Didn't  I  say  it  is 
after  a  lady  feels  it!" 

The  moral  of  her  prediction  was  that,  being  in  a  delicate 
state  of  health,  and  having  "let  myself  low"  before  baby  was 
born,  it  was  my  duty  to  wean  her  immediately. 

I  could  not  do  it. 

Although  the  nurse 's  advice  was  supported  by  my  Welsh 
landlady  (with  various  prognostications  of  consumption  and 
rickets),  I  could  not  at  first  deny  myself  the  wild  joy  of 
nursing  my  baby. 

But  a  severer  monitor  soon  came  to  say  that  I  must.  I 
found  that  my  money  was  now  reduced  to  little  more  than  two 
pounds,  and  that  I  was  confronted  by  the  necessity  (which  I 
had  so  long  put  off)  of  looking  for  employment. 

I  could  not  look  for  employment  until  I  had  found  a  nurse 
for  my  child,  and  I  could  not  find  a  nurse  until  my  baby  could 
do  without  me,  so  when  Isabel  was  three  weeks  old  I  began 
to  wean  her. 

At  first  I  contented  myself  with  the  hours  of  night,  keeping 
a  feeding-bottle  in  bed,  with  the  cow's  milk  warmed  to  the 
heat  of  my  own  body.  But  when  baby  cried  for  the  breast 
during  the  day  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  deny  her. 

That  made  the  time  of  weaning  somewhat  longer  than  it 
should  have  been,  but  I  compromised  with  my  conscience  by 
reducing  still  further  my  meagre  expenses. 

Must  I  tell  how  I  did  so? 

Although  it  was  the  month  of  July  there  was  a  snap  of  cold 
weather  such  as  sometimes  comes  in  the  middle  of  our  English 
summer,  and  yet  I  gave  up  having  a  fire  in  my  room,  and  for 
the  cooking  of  my  food  I  bought  a  small  spirit  stove  which  cost 
me  a  shilling. 

This  tempted  me  to  conduct  which  has  since  had  conse- 
quences, and  1  am  half  ashamed  and  half  afraid  to  speak  of  it. 
My  baby  linen  being  little  I  had  to  wash  it  frequently,  and 
having  no  fire  I  ...  dried  it  on  my  own  body. 

Oh,  I  see  now  it  was  reckless  foolishness,  almost  wilful 
madness,  but  I  thought  nothing  of  it  then.  I  was  poor  and 
perhaps  I  was  proud,  and  I  could  not  afford  a  fire.  And  then 
a  mother's  love  is  as  deep  as  the  sea,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  the  wide  world  I  would  not  have  done  to  keep  my  darling 
a  little  longer  beside  me. 


416  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

Baby  being  weaned  at  last  I  had  next  to  think  of  a  nurse,  and 
that  was  a  still  more  painful  ordeal.  To  give  my  child  to 
another  woman,  who  was  to  be  the  same  as  a  second  mother 
to  her,  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear  to  think  about. 

I  had  to  think  of  it.  But  I  could  only  do  so  by  telling 
myself  that,  when  I  put  baby  out  to  nurse,  I  might  arrange  to 
see  her  every  morning  and  evening  and  as  often  as  my  employ- 
ment permitted. 

This  idea  partly  reconciled  me  to  my  sacrifice,  and  I  was  in 
the  act  of  drawing  up  a  newspaper  advertisement  in  these 
terms  when  my  landlady  came  to  say  that  the  nurse  knew  of 
somebody  who  would  suit  me  exactly. 

Nurse  called  the  same  evening  and  told  me  a  long  story 
about  her  friend. 

She  was  a  Mrs.  Oliver,  and  she  lived  at  Ilford,  which  was  at 
the  other  end  of  London  and  quite  on  the  edge  of  the  country. 
The  poor  woman,  who  was  not  too  happily  married,  had  lost 
a  child  of  her  own  lately,  and  was  now  very  lonely,  being 
devoted  to  children. 

This  pleased  me  extremely,  especially  (God  forgive  me !)  the 
fact  that  Mrs.  Oliver  was  a  bereaved  mother  and  lived  on  the 
edge  of  the  country. 

Already  in  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  her  sitting  on  sunny  days 
under  a  tree  (perhaps  in  an  orchard)  with  Isabel  in  her  arms, 
rocking  her  gently  and  singing  to  her  softly,  and  almost  for- 
getting that  she  was  not  her  own  baby  whom  she  had  lost  .  .  . 
though  that  was  a  two-edged  sword  which  cut  me  both  ways, 
being  a  sort  of  wild  joy  with  tears  lurking  behind  it. 

So  I  took  a  note  of  Mrs.  Oliver's  address  (10  Leonard's  Row, 
Lennard's  Green,  Ilford)  and  wrote  to  her  the  same  night, 
asking  her  terms  and  stating  my  own  conditions. 

A  reply  came  the  following  day.  It  was  a  badly-written 
and  misspelt  letter,  which  showed  me  that  Mrs.  Oliver  must  be 
a  working  woman  (perhaps  the  wife  of  a  gardener  or  farm- 
labourer,  I  thought),  though  that  did  not  trouble  me  in  the 
least,  knowing  by  this  time  how  poor  people  loved  their  children. 
"The  terms  is  fore  shillins  a  u-cke,"  she  wrote,  "It at  i  am 

that  lonelie  sins  my  own  Uttel  one  lef  me  i  ivood  tike  your 

swete  darling  for  nothin  if  I  cud  afford  it  and  you  can  cum 

to  see  her  as  off  en  as  you  pleas." 

In  my  ignorance  and  simplicity  this  captured  me  com- 
pletely, so  I  replied  at  once  saying  I  would  take  baby  to  Ilford 
the  next  day. 


I  AM  LOST  117 

I  did  all  this  in  a  rush,  but  when  it  came  to  the  last  moment 
I  could  scarcely  part  with  my  letter,  and  I  remember  that  I 
passed  three  pillar-boxes  in  the  front  street  before  I  could 
bring  myself  to  post  it. 

I  suppose  my  eyes  must  have  been  red  when  I  returned 
home,  for  my  Welsh  landlady  (whom  I  had  taken  into  my  con- 
fidence about  my  means)  took  me  to  task  for  crying,  telling  me 
that  I  ought  to  thank  God  for  what  had  happened,  which  was 
like  a  message  from  heaven,  look  you,  and  a  dispensation  of 
Providence. 

I  tried  to  see  things  in  that  light,  though  it  was  difficult  to 
do  so,  for  the  darker  my  prospects  grew  the  more  radiant  shone 
the  light  of  the  little  angel  by  whose  life  I  lived,  and  the  harder 
it  seemed  to  live  without  her. 

"But  it  isn't  like  losing  my  child  altogether,  is  it?"  I  said. 

"  'Deed  no,  and  'twill  be  better  for  both  of  you,"  said  my 
landlady. 

"Although  Eford  is  a  long  way  off  I  can  go  there  every  day, 
can't  I?" 

' '  T)eed  thee  can,  if  thee  'st  not  minding  a  journey  of  nine 
miles  or  more." 

"And  if  I  can  get  a  good  situation  and  earn  a  little  money 
I  may  be  able  to  have  baby  back  and  hire  somebody  to  nurse 
her,  and  so  keep  her  all  to  myself." 

"And  why  shouldn't  thee?"  said  my  Welsh  landlady. 
"Thee  reading  print  like  the  young  minister  and  writing 
letters  like  a  copybook!" 

So  in  the  fierce  bravery  of  motherly  love  I  dried  my  eyes 
and  forced  back  my  sobs,  and  began  to  pack  up  my  baby's 
clothes,  and  to  persuade  myself  that  I  was  still  quite  happy. 

My  purse  was  very  low  by  this  tune.  After  paying  my  rent 
and  some  other  expenses  I  had  only  one  pound  and  a  few 
shillings  left. 

NINETY-SECOND  CHAPTER 

AT  half  past  seven  next  morning  I  was  ready  to  start  on  my 
journey. 

I  took  a  hasty  glance  at  myself  in  the  glass  before  going  out, 
and  I  thought  my  eyes  were  too  much  like  the  sky  at  daybreak 
— all  joyful  beams  with  a  veil  of  mist  in  front  of  them. 

But  I  made  myself  believe  that  never  since  baby  was  born 
had  I  been  so  happy.  I  was  sure  I  was  doing  the  best  for  her. 

2D 


418  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

I  was  also  sure  I  was  doing  the  best  for  myself,  for  what  could 
be  so  sweet  to  a  mother  as  providing  for  her  child  ? 

My  Welsh  landlady  had  told  me  it  was  nine  miles  to  Ilford, 
and  I  had  gathered  that  I  could  ride  all  the  way  in  successive 
omnibuses  for  less  than  a  shilling.  But  shillings  were  scarce 
with  me  then,  so  I  determined  to  walk  all  the  way. 

Emmerjane,  by  her  own  urgent  entreaty,  carried  baby  as 
far  as  the  corner  of  the  Bayswater  Road,  and  there  the  prema- 
ture little  woman  left  me,  after  nearly  smothering  baby  with 
kisses. 

"Keep  straight  as  a'  arrow  and  you  can't  lose  your  wye," 
she  said. 

It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  mornings  in  late  July  when 
the  air  is  fresh  and  the  sun  is  soft,  and  the  summer,  even  in 
London,  has  not  yet  had  time  to  grow  tired  and  dusty. 

I  felt  as  light  as  the  air  itself.  I  had  put  baby's  feeding- 
bottle  in  my  pocket  and  hung  her  surplus  linen  in  a  parcel 
about  my  wrist,  so  I  had  nothing  to  carry  in  my  arms  except 
baby  herself,  and  at  first  I  did  not  feel  her  weight. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  West-End  streets  at  that 
early  hour,  yet  a  few  were  riding  in  the  Park,  and  when  I  came 
to  the  large  houses  in  Lancaster  Gate  I  saw  that  though  the  sun 
was  shining  on  the  windows  most  of  the  blinds  were  down. 

I  must  have  been  walking  slowly,  for  it  was  half  past  eight 
when  I  reached  the  Marble  Arch.  There  I  encountered  the 
first  cross-tide  of  traffic,  but  somebody,  seeing  baby,  took  me 
by  the  arm  and  led  me  safely  over. 

The  great  "Mediterranean  of  Oxford  Street"  was  by  this 
time  running  at  full  tide.  People  were  pouring  out  of  the 
Tube  and  Underground  stations  and  clambering  on  to  the 
motor-buses.  But  in  the  rush  nobody  hustled  or  jostled  me.  A 
woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  was  like  a  queen — everybody 
made  way  for  her. 

Once  or  twice  I  stopped  to  look  at  the  shops.  Some  of  the 
dressmakers'  windows  were  full  of  beautiful  costumes.  I  did 
not  covet  any  of  them.  I  remembered  the  costly  ones  I  had 
bought  in  Cairo  and  how  little  happiness  they  had  brought  me. 
And  then  I  felt  as  if  the  wealth  of  the  world  were  in  my  arms. 

Nevertheless  the  whole  feminine  soul  in  me  awoke  when  I 
came  upon  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  babies'  clothes.  Already  I 
foresaw  a  time  when  baby,  dressed  in  pretty  things  like  these, 
would  be  running  about  Lennard  's  Green  and  plucking  up  the 
flowers  in  Mrs.  Oliver's  garden. 


I  AM  LOST  419 

The  great  street  was  very  long  and  I  thought  it  would  never 
end.  But  I  think  I  must  have  been  still  fresh  and  happy  while 
we  passed  through  the  foreign  quarter  of  Soho,  for  I  remember 
that,  when  two  young  Italian  waiters,  standing  at  the  door  of 
their  cafe,  asked  each  other  in  their  own  language  which  of  us 
(baby  or  I)  was  "the  bambino,"  I  turned  to  them  and  smiled. 

Before  I  came  to  Chancery  Lane,  however,  baby  began  to 
cry  for  her  food,  and  I  was  glad  to  slip  down  a  narrow  alley 
into  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  sit  on  a  seat  in  the  garden  while 
I  gave  her  the  bottle.  It  was  then  ten  o  'clock,  the  sun  was  high 
and  the  day  was  becoming  hot. 

The  languid  stillness  of  the  garden  after  the  noise  and  stir 
of  the  streets  tempted  me  to  stay  longer  than  I  had  intended, 
and  when  I  resumed  my  journey  I  thought  the  rest  must  have 
done  me  good,  but  before  I  reached  the  Holborn  Viaduct 
fatigue  wras  beginning  to  gain  on  me. 

I  saw  that  I  must  be  approaching  some  great  hospital,  for 
hospital  nurses  were  now  passing  me  constantly,  and  one  of 
them,  who  was  going  my  way,  stepped  up  and  asked  me  to 
allow  her  to  carry  baby.  She  looked  so  sweet  and  motherly 
that  I  let  her  do  so,  and  as  we  walked  along  we  talked. 

She  asked  me  if  I  was  going  far,  and  I  said  no,  only  to  the 
other  end  of  London,  the  edge  of  the  country,  to  Ilford. 

"Ilford!"  she  cried.  "Why,  that's  miles  and  miles  away. 
You'll  have  to  'bus  it  to  Aldgate,  then  change  for  Bow,  and 
then  tram  it  through  Stratford  Market. ' ' 

I  told  her  I  preferred  to  walk,  being  such  a  good  walker,  and 
she  gave  me  a  searching  look,  but  said  no  more  on  that  subject. 

Then  she  asked  me  how  old  baby  was  and  whether  I  was 
nursing  her  myself,  and  I  answered  that  baby  was  six  weeks 
and  I  had  been  forced  to  wean  her,  being  supposed  to  be 
delicate,  and  besides  .  .  . 

"Ah,  perhaps  you  are  putting  her  out  to  nurse,"  she  said, 
and  I  answered  yes,  and  that  was  the  reason  I  was  going  to 
Ilford. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  with  another  searching  look,  and  then 
it  flashed  upon  me  that  she  had  formed  her  own  conclusions 
about  what  had  befallen  me. 

When  we  came  to  a  great  building  in  a  side  street  on  the  left, 
with  ambulance  vans  passing  in  and  out  of  a  wide  gateway,  she 
said  she  was  sorry  she  could  not  carry  baby  any  further,  be- 
cause she  was  due  in  the  hospital,  where  the  house-doctor  would 
be  waiting  for  her. 


420  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"But  I  hope  baby's  nurse  will  be  a  good  one.  They're  not 
always  that,  you  know." 

I  was  not  quite  so  happy  when  the  hospital  nurse  left  me. 
The  parcel  on  my  wrist  was  feeling  heavier  than  before,  and 
my  feet  were  beginning  to  drag.  But  I  tried  to  keep  a  good 
heart  as  I  faced  the  crowded  thoroughfares — Newgate  with 
its  cruel  old  prison,  the  edge  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  corner  of 
St.  Martin 's-le-Grand,  and  so  on  into  Cheapside. 

Cheapside  itself  was  almost  impassable.  Merchants,  brokers, 
clerks,  and  city  men  generally  in  tall  silk  hats  were  hurrying 
and  sometimes  running  along  the  pavement,  making  me  think 
of  the  river  by  my  father's  house,  whose  myriad  little  waves 
seemed  to  my  fancy  as  a  child  to  be  always  struggling  to  find 
out  which  could  get  to  Murphy's  Mouth  the  first  and  so  drown 
itself  in  the  sea. 

People  were  still  very  kind  to  me,  though,  and  if  anybody 
brushed  me  in  passing  he  raised  his  hat :  and  if  any  one  pushed 
me  accidentally  he  stopped  to  say  he  was  sorry. 

Of  course  baby  was  the  talisman  that  protected  me  from 
harm ;  and  what  I  should  have  done  without  her  when  I  got  to 
the  Mansion  House  I  do  not  know,  for  that  seemed  to  be  the 
central  heart  of  all  the  London  traffic,  with  its  motor-buses 
and  taxi-cabs  going  in  different  directions  and  its  tremendous 
tides  of  human  life  flowing  every  way. 

But  just  as  I  was  standing,  dazed  and  deafened  on  the  edge 
of  a  triangle  of  streets,  looking  up  at  a  great  building  that  was 
like  a  rock  on  the  edge  of  a  noisy  sea,  and  bore  on  its  face  the 
startling  inscription,  ' '  The  Earth  is  the  Lord 's  and  the  fulness 
thereof,"  a  big  policeman,  seeing  me  with  baby  in  my  arms, 
held  up  his  hand  to  the  drivers  and  shouted  to  the  pedestrians 
("Stand  a-one  side,  please"),  and  then  led  me  safely  across, 
as  if  the  Red  Sea  had  parted  to  let  us  pass. 

It  was  then  twelve  o'clock  and  baby  was  once  more  crying 
for  her  food,  so  I  looked  for  a  place  in  which  I  might  rest  while 
I  gave  her  the  bottle  again. 

Suddenly  I  came  upon  what  I  wanted.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
garden,  but  it  was  a  graveyard — one  of  the  graveyards  of  the 
old  London  churches,  enclosed  by  high  buildings  now,  and 
overlooked  by  office  windows. 

Such  a  restful  place,  so  green,  so  calm,  so  beautiful !  Lying 
there  in  the  midst  of  the  tumultuous  London  traffic,  it  re- 
minded me  of  one  of  the  little  islands  in  the  middle  of  our 


I  AM  LOST  421 

Elian  glens,  on  which  the  fuchsia  and  wild  rose  grow  while 
the  river  rolls  and  boils  about  it. 

I  had  just  sat  down  on  a  seat  that  had  been  built  about  a 
gnarled  and  blackened  old  tree,  and  was  giving  baby  her  food, 
when  I  saw  that  a  young  girl  was  sitting  beside  me. 

She  was  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  was  eating  scones 
out  of  a  confectioner's  bag,  while  she  read  a  paper-covered 
novel.  Presently  she  looked  at  baby  with  her  little  eyes,  which 
were  like  a  pair  of  shinv  boot  buttons,  and  said : 

"That  your  child?"' 

I  answered  her,  and  then  she  asked : 

"Do  you  like  children?" 

I  answered  her  again,  and  asked  her  if  she  did  not  like  them 
also. 

"Can't  say  I'm  particularly  gone  on  them,"  she  said,  where- 
upon I  replied  that  that  was  probably  because  she  had  not  yet 
had  much  experience. 

"Oh,  haven't  I?  Perhaps  I  haven't,"  she  said,  and  then 
vrith  a  hard  little  laugh,  she  added  "Mother's  had  nine 
though." 

I  asked  if  she  was  a  shop  assistant,  and  with  a  toss  of  her 
head  she  told  me  she  was  a  typist. 

"Better  screw  and  your  evenings  off,"  she  said,  and  then 
she  returned  to  the  subject  of  children. 

One  of  her  chums  in  the  office  who  used  to  go  out  with  her 
every  night  to  the  music-halls  got  into  trouble  a  year  or  two 
ago.  As  a  consequence  she  had  to  marry.  And  what  was  the 
result  ?  Never  had  her  nose  out  of  the  wash-tub  now ! 

The  story  was  crude  enough,  yet  it  touched  me  closely. 

"But  couldn't  she  have  put  her  baby  out  to  nurse  and  got 
another  situation  somewhere?"  I  asked. 

"Matter  o'  luck,"  said  the  girl.  "Some  can.  Some  can't. 
That's  their  look  out.  Firms  don't  like  it.  If  they  find  you've 
got  a  child  they  gen  'r  'lly  chuck  you. ' ' 

In  spite  of  myself  I  was  a  little  down  when  I  started  on  my 
journey  again.  I  thought  the  parcel  was  cutting  my  wrist 
and  I  felt  my  feet  growing  heavier  at  every  step. 

TVas  Maggie  Jones's  story  the  universal  one? 

If  a  child  were  born  beyond  the  legal  limits,  was  it  a  thing  to 
hide  away  and  be  ashamed  of? 

And  could  it  be  possible  that  man's  law  was  stronger  than 
God's  law  after  all? 


422  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

NINETY-THIRD  CHAPTER 

I  HAD  walked  so  slowly  and  stopped  so  often  that  it  was  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  I  passed  through  Aldgate. 

I  was  then  faint  for  want  of  food,  so  I  looked  out  for  a  tea- 
shop  or  restaurant. 

I  passed  several  such  places  before  I  found  the  modest  house 
I  wanted.  Then  I  stepped  into  it  rather  nervously  and  took 
the  seat  nearest  the  door. 

It  was  an  oblong  room  with  red  plush  seats  along  the  walls 
behind  a  line  of  marble-topped  tables.  The  customers  were 
all  men,  chiefly  clerks  and  warehousemen,  I  thought,  and  the 
attendants  were  girls  in  black  frocks  and  white  aprons. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  constant  fire  of  free-and-easy  flirtation 
going  on  between  them.  At  one  table  a  man  in  a  cloth  cap 
was  saying  to  the  girl  who  had  served  him : 

"What's  the  damage,  dearie?" 

"One  roast,  one  veg,  two  breads — 'levenpence,  and  no  liber- 
ties, mister." 

"Sunday  off,  Em'ly?"  said  a  youth  in  a  red  tie  at  another 
table,  and  being  told  it  was,  he  said : 

' '  Then  what  do  you  say  to  'oppin '  up  to  'Endon  and  'aving 
a  day  in  a  boat  ? ' ' 

I  had  to  wait  some  time  before  anybody  came  to  attend  to 
me,  but  at  length  a  girl  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  who 
had  taken  no  part  in  these  amatory  exchanges,  stepped  up  and 
asked  what  I  wanted. 

I  ordered  a  glass  of  cold  milk  and  a  scone  for  myself  and  a 
pint  of  hot  milk  to  replenish  baby's  bottle. 

The  girl  served  me  immediately,  and  after  rinsing  and  refill- 
ing the  feeding-bottle  she  stood  near  while  the  baby  used  it. 

She  had  quiet  eyes  and  that  indefinable  expression  of  yearn- 
ing tenderness  which  we  sometimes  see  in  the  eyes  of  a  dear 
old  maid  who  has  missed  her  motherhood. 

The  shop  had  been  clearing  rapidly ;  and  as  soon  as  the  men 
were  gone,  and  while  the  other  girls  were  sitting  in  corners  to 
read  penny  novelettes,  my  waitress  leaned  over  and  asked  me 
if  I  did  not  wish  to  go  into  the  private  room  to  attend  to  baby. 

A  moment  afterwards  I  followed  her  into  a  small  apartment 
at  the  end  of  the  shop,  and  there  a  curious  thing  occurred. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  us  and  asked  me  in  an  eager 
whisper  to  allow  her  to  see  to  baby. 


I  AM  LOST  423 

I  tried  to  excuse  myself,  but  she  whispered: 

''Hush!  I  have  a  baby  of  my  own,  though  they  know 
nothing  about  it  here,  so  you  can  safely  trust  me." 

I  did  so,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the  joy  she  had  in 
doing  what  was  wanted,  saying  all  sorts  of  sweet  and  gentle 
things  to  my  baby  (though  I  knew  they  were  meant  for  her 
own),  as  if  the  starved  mother-heart  in  her  were  stealing  a 
moment  of  maternal  tenderness. 

' '  There ! "  she  said.    ' '  She  '11  be  comfortable  now,  bless  her ! " 

I  asked  about  her  own  child,  and,  coming  close  and  speaking 
in  a  whisper,  she  told  me  all  about  it. 

It  was  a  girl  and  it  would  be  a  year  old  at  Christmas.  At 
first  she  had  put  it  out  to  nurse  in  town,  where  she  could  see  it 
every  evening,  but  the  foster-mother  had  neglected  it,  and  the 
Inspector  had  complained,  so  she  had  been  compelled  to  take 
it  away.  Now  it  was  in  a  Home  in  the  country,  ten  miles 
from  Liverpool  Street,  and  it  was  as  bonny  as  a  peach  and  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long. 

' '  See, ' '  she  whispered,  taking  a  card  from  her  breast,  after 
a  furtive  glance  towards  the  door.  "I  sent  two  shillings  to 
have  her  photograph  taken  and  the  Matron  has  just  sent  it." 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  beautiful  baby  girl,  and  I  found  it 
easy  to  praise  her. 

"I  suppose  you  see  her  constantly,  don't  you?"  I  said. 

The  girl's  face  dropped. 

"Only  on  visiting  days,  once  a  month,  and  not  always  that," 
she  answered. 

' '  But  how  can  you  live  without  seeing  her  of tener  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Matter  o'  means,"  she  said  sadly.  "I  pay  five  shillings 
a  Aveek  for  her  board,  and  the  train  is  one-and-eight  return, 
so  I  have  to  be  careful,  you  see,  and  if  I  lost  my  place  what 
would  happen  to  baby?" 

I  was  very  low  and  tired  and  down  when  I  resumed  my 
walk.  But  when  I  thought  for  a  moment  of  taking  omnibuses 
for  the  rest  of  my  journey  I  remembered  the  waitress's  story 
and  told  myself  that  the  little  I  had  belonged  to  my  child,  and 
so  I  struggled  on. 

But  what  a  weary  march  it  was  during  the  next  two  hours ! 
I  was  in  the  East  End  now,  and  remembering  the  splendour  of 
the  West,  I  could  scarcely  believe  I  was  still  in  London. 

Long,  mean,  monotonous  streets,  running  off  to  right  and 
left,  miles  on  miles  of  them  without  form  or  feature,  or  any 
trace  of  nature  except  the  blue  strips  of  sky  overhead. 


424  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Such  multitudes  of  people,  often  badly  dressed  and  generally 
with  set  and  anxious  faces,  hasting  to  and  fro,  hustling,  elbow- 
ing, jostling  each  other  along,  as  if  driven  by  some  invisible 
power  that  was  swinging  an  unseen  scourge. 

No  gracious  courtesy  here!  A  woman  with  a  child  in  her 
arms  was  no  longer  a  queen.  Children  were  cheap,  and  some- 
times it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  save  myself  from  being 
pushed  off  the  pavement. 

The  air  seemed  to  smell  of  nothing  but  ale  and  coarse 
tobacco.  And  then  the  noise!  The  ceaseless  clatter  of  carts, 
the  clang  of  electric  cars,  the  piercing  shrieks  of  the  Under- 
ground Eailway  coming  at  intervals  out  of  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  like  explosions  out  of  a  volcano,  and,  above  all,  the 
raucous,  rasping,  high-pitched  voices  of  the  people,  often  foul- 
mouthed,  sometimes  profane,  too  frequently  obscene. 

A  cold,  grey,  joyless,  outcast  city,  cut  off  from  the  rest  of 
London  by  an  invisible  barrier  more  formidable  than  a  wall ; 
a  city  in  which  the  inhabitants  seemed  to  live  cold,  grey, 
joyless  lives,  all  the  same  that  they  joked  and  laughed ;  a  city 
under  perpetual  siege,  the  siege  of  Poverty,  in  the  constant 
throes  of  civil  war,  the  "War  of  Want,  the  daily  and  hourly 
fight  for  food. 

If  there  were  other  parts  of  the  East  End  (and  I  am  sure 
there  must  be)  where  people  live  simple,  natural,  human  lives, 
I  did  not  see  them  that  day,  for  my  course  was  down  the 
principal  thoroughfares  only. 

Those  thoroughfares,  telescoping  each  other,  one  after  an- 
other, seemed  as  if  they  would  never  come  to  an  end. 

How  tired  I  was !  Even  baby  was  no  longer  light,  and  the 
parcel  on  my  wrist  had  become  as  heavy  as  lead. 

Towards  four  o'clock  I  came  to  a  broad  parapet  which  had 
strips  of  garden  enclosed  by  railings  and  iron  seats  in  front  of 
them.  Utterly  exhausted,  my  arms  aching  and  my  legs  limp, 
I  sank  into  one  of  these  seats,  feeling  that  I  could  walk  no 
farther. 

But  after  a  while  I  felt  better,  and  then  I  became  aware 
that  another  woman  was  sitting  beside  me. 

When  I  looked  at  her  first  I  thought  I  had  never  in  my  life 
seen  anything  so  repulsive.  She  was  asleep,  and  having  that 
expressionless  look  which  sleep  gives,  I  found  it  impossible 
to  know  whether  she  was  young  or  old.  She  was  not  merely 
coarse,  she  was  gross.  The  womanhood  in  her  seemed  to  be 
effaced,  and  I  thought  she  was  uterly  brutalised  and  degraded. 


I  AM  LOST  425 

Presently  baby,  who  had  also  been  asleep,  awoke  and  cried, 
and  then  the  woman  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  the  child, 
while  I  hushed  her  to  sleep  again. 

There  must  be  something  in  a  baby 's  face  that  has  a  miracu- 
lous effect  on  every  woman  (as  if  these  sweet  angels,  fresh 
from  God,  make  us  all  young  and  all  beautiful),  and  it  was 
even  so  at  that  moment. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  transfiguration  in  the  woman 's  face 
when  she  looked  into  the  face  of  my  baby.  The  expression  of 
brutality  and  degradation  disappeared,  and  through  the 
bleared  eyes  and  over  the  coarsened  features  there  came  the 
light  of  an  almost  celestial  smile. 

After  a  while  the  woman  spoke  to  me.  She  spoke  in  a 
husky  voice  which  seemed  to  be  compounded  of  the  effects  of 
rum  and  raw  night  air. 

"That  your 'n,"  she  said. 

I  answered  her. 

"Boy  or  gel?" 

I  told  her. 

"'Owold?" 

I  told  her  that  too. 

The  woman  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a 
thickening  of  the  husky  voice,  she  said: 

"S'pose  you'll  say  I'm  a  bleedin'  liar,  but  I  'ad  a  kid  as 
putty  as  that  onct — puttier.  It  was  a  boy.  The  nobbiest  little 
b —  -  as  you  ever  come  acrost.  Your'n  is  putty,  but  it  ain't 
in  it  with  my  Billie,  not  by  a  long  chalk." 

I  asked  her  what  had  become  of  her  child. 

"Lawst  'im,"  she  said.  "Used  to  give  sixpence  a  week  to 
the  woman  what  'ad  'alf  the  'ouse  with  me  to  look  after  'im 
while  I  was  workin'  at  the  fact'ry.  But  what  did  the  bleedin' 

b do?  Blimey,  if  she  didn't  let  'im  get  run  over  by  the 

dray  from  the  brewery. ' ' 

"Killed?"  I  said,  clutching  at  baby. 

The  woman  nodded  without  speaking. 

I  asked  her  how  old  her  child  had  been. 

' '  More  'n  four, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Just  old  enough  to  run  a  arrand. 
It  was  crool.  Hit  me  out,  I  can  tell  you.  That  kid  was  all  I 
had.  Apple  o'  my  eye,  in  a  manner  of  speakin'.  When  it 
was  gone  there  wasn't  much  encouragement,  was  there?  The 
Favver  from  the  Mission  came  jawin'  as  'ow  Jesus  'ad  taken 
'im  to  'Imself .  Rot !  When  they  put  'im  down  in  old  Bow 
I  didn't  care  no  more  for  nothin'.  Monse  and  monse  I  walked 


426  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

about  night  and  day,  and  the  bleedin '  coppers  was  allus  on  to 
me.  They  got  their  own  way  at  last.  I  took  the  pneumonier 
and  was  laid  up  at  the  London.  And  when  I  got  out  I  didn't 
go  back  to  the  fact'ry  neither." 

"What  did  you  do?"  I  asked. 

The  woman  laughed — bitterly,  terribly. 

"Do?    Don't  you  know?" 

I  shook  my  head.  The  woman  looked  hard  at  me,  and  then 
at  the  child. 

' '  Look  here — are  you  a  good  gel  ? "  she  said. 

Hardly  knowing  what  she  meant  I  answered  that  I  hoped  so. 

"'Ope?    Don't  you  know  that  neither?" 

Then  I  caught  her  meaning,  and  answered  faintly: 

"Yes." 

She  looked  searchingly  into  my  eyes  and  said : 

"  I  b  'lieve  you.  Some  gels  is.  S  'elp  me  Gawd  I  don 't  know 
how  they  done  it,  though." 

I  was  shuddering  and  trembling,  for  I  was  catching  glimpses, 
as  if  by  broken  lights  from  hell,  of  the  life  behind — the 
wrecked  hope,  the  shattered  faith,  the  human  being  hunted  like 
a  beast  and  at  last  turned  into  one. 

Just  at  that  moment  baby  awoke  and  cried  again.  The 
woman  looked  at  her  with  the  same  look  as  before — not  so 
much  a  smile  as-  a  sort  of  haggard  radiance. 

Then  leaning  over  me  she  blew  puffs  of  alcoholic  breath  into 
baby's  face,  and  stretching  out  a  coarse  fat  finger  she  tickled 
her  under  the  chin. 

Baby  ceased  to  cry  and  began  to  smile.  Seeing  this  the 
woman 's  eyes  sparkled  like  sunshine. 

"See  that,"  she  cried.  "S'elp  me  Jesus,  I  b 'lieve  I  could 
'ave  been  good  meself  if  I'd  on'y  'ad  somethink  like  this  to 
keer  for. ' ' 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  more  than  once  there  had  been 
tears  in  my  eyes  while  the  woman  spoke,  though  her  blas- 
phemies had  corrupted  the  air  like  the  gases  that  rise  from 
a  dust-heap.  But  when  she  touched  my  child  I  shuddered  as 
if  something  out  of  the  lowest  depths  had  tainted  her. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened. 

I  had  risen  to  go,  although  my  limbs  could  scarcely  support 
me,  and  was  folding  my  little  angel  closely  in  my  arms,  when 
the  woman  rose  too  and  said: 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  carry  your  kiddie  a  bit,  would  you?" 

I  tried  to  excuse  myself,  saying  something,  I  know  not  what. 


I  AM  LOST  427 

The  woman  looked  at  me  again,  and  after  a  moment  she  said : 

"S'pose  not.  On'y  I  thought  it  might  make  me  think  as 
'ow  I  was  carryin'  Billie. " 

That  swept  down  everything. 

The  one  remaining  window  of  the  woman's  soul  was  open 
and  I  dared  not  close  it. 

I  looked  down  at  my  child — so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  stainless; 
I  looked  up  at  the  woman — so  foul,  so  gross,  so  degraded. 

There  was  a  moment  of  awful  struggle  and  then  .  .  . 
the  woman  and  I  were  walking  side  by  side. 

And  the  harlot  was  carrying  my  baby  down  the  street. 

NINETY-FOURTH  CHAPTER 

AT  five  o'clock  I  was  once  more  alone. 

I  was  then  standing  (with  baby  in  my  own  arms  now)  under 
the  statue  which  is  at  the  back  of  Bow  Church. 

I  thought  I  could  walk  no  farther,  and  although  every  penny 
I  had  in  my  pocket  belonged  to  Isabel  (being  all  that  yet 
stood  between  her  and  want)  I  must  borrow  a  little  of  it  if 
she  was  to  reach  Mrs.  Oliver's  that  night. 

I  waited  for  the  first  tram  that  was  going  in  my  direction, 
and  when  it  came  up  I  signalled  to  it,  but  it  did  not  stop — it 
was  full. 

I  waited  for  a  second  tram,  but  that  was  still  more  crowded. 

I  reproached  myself  for  having  come  so  far.  I  told  myself 
how  ill-advised  I  had  been  in  seeking  for  a  nurse  for  my  child 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  city.  I  reminded  myself  that  I  could 
not  hope  to  visit  her  every  day  if  my  employment  was  to  be 
in  the  West,  as  I  had  always  thought  it  would  be.  I  asked 
myself  if  in  all  this  vast  London,  with  its  myriads  of  homes, 
there  had  been  no  house  nearer  that  could  have  sheltered  my 
child. 

Against  all  this  I  had  to  set  something,  or  I  think  my  very 
heart  would  have  died  there  and  then.  I  set  the  thought  of 
Ilford,  on  the  edge  of  the  country,  with  its  green  fields  and  its 
flowers.  I  set  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Oliver,  who  would  love  my 
child  as  tenderly  as  if  she  were  her  own  little  lost  one. 

I  dare  say  it  was  all  very  weak  and  childish,  but  it  is  just 
when  we  are  done  and  down,  and  do  not  know  what  we  are 
doing,  that  Providence  seems  to  be  directing  us,  and  it  was  so 
with  me  at  that  moment. 

The  trams  being  full  I  had  concluded  that  Fate  had  set 


428  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

itself  against  my  spending  any  of  Isabel's  money,  and  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  make  a  fierce  fight  over  the  last  stage  of 
my  journey,  when  I  saw  that  a  little  ahead  of  where  I  was 
standing  the  road  divided  into  two  branches  at  an  acute  angle, 
one  branch  going  to  the  right  and  the  other  to  the  left. 

Not  all  Emmer jane's  instructions  about  keeping  "as  straight 
as  a'  arrow"  sufficed  to  show  me  which  of  the  two  roads  to 
take  and  I  looked  about  for  somebody  to  tell  me. 

It  was  then  that  I  became  aware  of  a  shabby  old  four- 
wheeled  cab  which  stood  in  the  triangular  space  in  front  of  the 
statue,  and  of  the  driver  (an  old  man,  in  a  long  coachman's 
coat,  much  worn  and  discoloured,  and  a  dilapidated  tall  hat, 
very  shiny  in  patches)  looking  at  me  while  he  took  the  nose- 
bag off  his  horse — a  bony  old  thing  with  its  head  hanging 
down. 

I  stepped  up  to  him  and  asked  my  way,  and  he  pointed  it 
out  to  me — to  the  right,  over  the  bridge  and  through  Stratford 
Market. 

I  asked  how  far  it  was  to  Ilford. 

"Better  nor  two  mile  /  call  it,"  he  answered. 

After  that,  being  so  tired  in  brain  as  well  as  body,  I  asked  a 
foolish  question — how  long  it  would  take  me  to  get  there. 

The  old  driver  looked  at  me  again,  and  said : 

' '  'Bout  a  'our  and  a  'alf  I  should  say  by  the  looks  of  you 
— and  you  carryin '  the  biby. ' ' 

I  dare  say  my  face  dropped  sadly  as  I  turned  away,  feeling 
very  tired,  yet  determined  to  struggle  through.  But  hardly 
had  I  walked  twenty  paces  when  I  heard'  the  cab  coming  up 
behind  and  the  old  driver  crying: 

"'Old  on,  missie." 

I  stopped,  and  to  my  surprise  he  drew  up  by  my  side,  got 
down  from  his  box,  opened  the  door  of  his  cab  and  said : 

"Gerin." 

I  told  him  I  could  not  afford  to  ride. 

"Ger  in,"  he  said  again  more  loudly,  and  as  if  angry  with 
himself  for  having  to  say  it. 

Again  I  made  some  demur,  and  then  the  old  man  said, 
speaking  fiercely  through  his  grizzly  beard: 

"Look  'ere,  missie.  I  'ave  a  gel  o'  my  own  lost  somewheres, 
and  I  wouldn't  be  ans'rable  to  my  ole  woman  if  I  let  you 
walk  with  a  face  like  that." 

I  don't  know  what  I  said  to  him.   I  only  know  that  my  tears 


I  AM  LOST  429 

gushed  out  and  that  at  the  next  moment  I  was  sitting  in  the 
cab. 

What  happened  then  I  do  not  remember,  except  that  the 
dull  rumble  of  the  wheels  told  me  we  were  passing  over  a 
bridge,  and  that  I  saw  through  the  mist  before  my  eyes  a  slug- 
gish river,  a  muddy  canal,  and  patches  of  marshy  fields. 

I  think  my  weariness  and  perhaps  my  emotion,  added  to  the 
heavy  monotonous  trotting  of  the  old  horse,  must  have  put  me 
to  sleep,  for  after  a  while  I  was  conscious  of  a  great  deal  of 
noise,  and  of  the  old  driver  twisting  about  and  shouting  in  & 
cheerful  voice  through  the  open  window  at  the  back  of  his  seat : 

"Stratford  Market." 

After  a  while  we  came  to  a  broad  road,  full  of  good  houses, 
and  then  the  old  driver  cried  ' '  Ilf ord, ' '  and  asked  what  part  of 
it  I  wished  to  go  to. 

I  reached  forward  and  told  him,  "10  Lennard's  Row,  Len- 
nard's  Green,"  and  then  sat  back  with  a  lighter  heart. 

But  after  another  little  while  I  saw  a  great  many  funeral 
cars  passing  us,  with  the  hearses  empty,  as  if  returning  from  a 
cemetery.  This  made  me  think  of  the  woman  and  her  story, 
and  I  found  myself  unconsciously  clasping  my  baby  closer. 

The  corteges  became  so  numerous  at  last  that  to  shut  out 
painful  sights  I  closed  my  eyes  and  tried  to  think  of  pleasanter 
things. 

I  thought,  above  all,  of  Mrs.  Oliver's  house,  as  I  had  always 
seen  it  in  my  mind 's  eye — not  a  pretentious  place  at  all,  only 
a  little  humble  cottage  but  very  sweet  and  clean,  covered  with 
creepers  and  perhaps  with  roses. 

I  was  still  occupied  with  these  visions  when  I  felt  the  cab 
turn  sharply  to  the  left.  Then  opening  my  eyes  I  saw  that  we 
were  running  down  a  kind  of  alley-way,  with  a  row  of  very 
mean  little  two-storey  houses  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other, 
a  kind  of  waste  ground  strewn  with  broken  bottles,  broken  iron 
pans,  broken  earthenware  and  other  refuse,  interspersed  with 
tufts  of  long  scraggy  grass,  which  looked  the  more  wretched 
because  the  sinking  sun  was  glistening  over  it. 

Suddenly  the  cab  slowed  down  and  stopped.  Then  the  old 
man  jumped  from  his  box  and  opening  his  cab  door,  said : 

"Here  you  are,  missie.     This  is  your  destingnation. " 

There  must  have  been  a  moment  of  semi-consciousness  in 
which  I  got  out  of  the  cab,  for  when  I  came  to  full  possession 
of  myself  I  was  standing  on  a  narrow  pavement  in  front  of  a 
closed  door  which  bore  the  number  10. 


430  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

At  first  I  was  stunned.  Then  my  heart  was  in  my  mouth, 
and  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  not  to  burst  out  crying. 
Finally  I  wanted  to  fly,  and  I  turned  back  to  the  cab,  but  it 
had  gone  and  was  already  passing  round  the  corner. 

It  was  six  o  'clock.  I  was  very  tired.  I  was  nine  miles  from 
Bayswater.  I  could  not  possibly  carry  baby  back.  What 
could  I  do  ? 

Then,  my  brain  being  unable  to  think,  a  mystic  feeling  (born 
perhaps  of  my  life  in  the  convent)  came  over  me — a  feeling 
that  all  that  had  happened  on  my  long  journey,  all  I  had  seen 
and  everything  that  had  been  said  to  me,  had  been  intended  to 
prepare  me  for  (and  perhaps  to  save  me  from)  the  dangers 
that  were  to  come. 

I  think  that  gave  me  a  certain  courage,  for  with  what 
strength  of  body  and  spirit  I  had  left  (though  my  heart  was 
in  my  mouth  still)  I  stepped  across  the  pavement  and  knocked 
at  the  door. 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

My  great-hearted,  heroic  little  woman ! 

All  this  time  I,  in  my  vain  belief  that  our  expedition  was  of 
some  consequence  to  the  world,  was  trying  to  comfort  myself 
with  the  thought  that  my  darling  must  have  heard  of  my 
safety. 

But  how  could  I  imagine  that  she  had  hidden  herself  away 
in  a  mass  of  humanity — which  appears  to  be  the  most  impene- 
trable depths  into  which  a  human  being  can  disappear? 

How  could  I  dream  that,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  such  inter- 
ests as  mine,  she  was  occupied  day  and  night,  night  and  day, 
with  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the  raptures  and  fears  of  the 
mighty  passion  of  Motherhood,  which"  seems  to  be  the  only 
thing  in  life  that  is  really  great  and  eternal  ? 

Above  all,  how  could  I  believe  that  in  London  itself,  in  the 
heart  of  tto&  civilised  and  religious  world,  she  was  going 
through  trials  which  make  mine,  in  the  grim  darkness  of  the 
Polar  night,  seem  trivial  and  easy? 

It  is  all  over  now,  and  though,  thank  God,  I  did  not  know 
at  the  time  what  was  happening  to  my  dear  one  at  home,  it 
is  some  comfort  to  me  to  remember  that  I  was  acting  exactly 
as  if  I  did. 

From  the  day  we  turned  back  I  heard  my  darling's  voice  no 
more.  But  I  had  a  still  more  perplexing  and  tormenting 


I  AM  LOST  431 

experience,  and  that  was  a  dream  about  her,  in  which  she  was 
walking  on  a  crevassed  glacier  towards  a  precipice  which  she 
could  not  see  because  the  brilliant  rays  of  the  aurora  were  in 
her  eyes. 

Anybody  may  make  what  he  likes  of  that  on  grounds  of 
natural  law,  and  certainly  it  was  not  surprising  that  my 
dreams  should  speak  to  me  in  pictures  drawn  from  the  perils 
of  my  daily  life,  but  only  one  thing  matters  now — that  these 
experiences  of  my  sleeping  hours  increased  my  eagerness  to 
get  back  to  my  dear  one. 

My  comrades  were  no  impediment  to  that,  I  can  tell  you. 
With  their  faces  turned  homewards,  and  the  wind  at  their 
backs,  they  were  showing  tremendous  staying  power,  although 
we  had  thirty  and  forty  below  zero  pretty  constantly,  with, 
rough  going  all  the  time,  for  the  snow  had  been  ruckled  up  by 
the  blizzard  to  almost  impassable  heaps  and  hummocks. 

On  reaching  our  second  installation  at  Mount  Darwin  I  sent 
a  message  to  the  men  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Erebus,  telling  them 
to  get  into  communication  (through  Macquarie  Island)  with 
the  captain  of  our  ship  in  New  Zealand,  asking  him  to  return 
for  us  as  soon  as  the  ice  conditions  would  permit;  and  this 
was  the  last  of  our  jobs  (except  packing  our  instruments  tight 
and  warm)  before  we  started  down  the  "long  white  gateway" 
for  our  quarters  at  the  Cape. 

With  all  the  heart  in  the  world,  though,  our  going  had  to  be 
slow.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  Antarctic  winter,  when  absolute 
night  reigned  for  weeks  and  we  had  nothing  to  alleviate  the 
darkness  but  the  light  of  the  scudding  moon,  and  sometimes  the 
glory  of  the  aurora  as  it  encircled  the  region  of  the  unrisen 
sun. 

Nevertheless  my  comrades  sang  their  way  home  through  the 
sullen  gloom.  Sometimes  I  wakened  the  echoes  of  those 
desolate  old  hills  myself  with  a  stave  of  "Sally's  the  gel," 
although  I  was  suffering  a  good  deal  from  my  darker  thoughts 
of  what  the  damnable  hypocrisies  of  life  might  be  doing  with 
my  darling,  and  my  desire  to  take  my  share  of  her  trouble 
whatever  it  might  be. 

The  sun  returned  the  second  week  in  August.  Nobody  can 
know  what  relief  that  brought  us  except  those  who  have  lived 
for  months  without  it.  To  see  the  divine  and  wonderful  thing 
rise  up  like  a  god  over  those  lone  white  regions  is  to  know 
what  a  puny  thing  man  is  in  the  scheme  of  the  world. 

I  think  all  of  us  felt  like  that  at  sight  of  the  sun,  though 


432  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

some  (myself  among  the  rest)  were  thinking  more  of  it  as  a 
kind  of  message  from  friends  at  home.  But  old  Treacle,  I 
remember,  who  had  stood  looking  at  it  in  awed  solemnity,  said : 

"Well,  I'm  d !" 

After  that  we  got  on  famously  until  we  reached  Winter 
Quarters,  where  we  found  everybody  well  and  everything  in 
order,  but  received  one  piece  of  alarming  intelligence — that 
the  attempt  to  get  into  wireless  communication  with  our  ship 
had  failed,  with  the  result  that  we  should  have  to  wait  for  her 
until  the  time  originally  appointed  for  her  return. 

That  did  not  seem  to  matter  much  to  my  shipmates,  who, 
being  snugly  housed  from  blinding  blizzards,  settled  down  to 
amuse  themselves  with  sing-songs  and  story-tellings  and 
readings. 

But,  do  what  I  would,  to  me  the  delay  was  dreadful,  and 
every  day,  in  the  fever  of  my  anxiety  to  get  away  as  soon  as 
the  ice  permitted,  I  climbed  the  slopes  of  old  Erebus  with 
0 'Sullivan,  to  look  through  powerful  glasses-  for  what  the 
good  chap  called  the  "open  wather." 

Thank  God,  our  wooden  house  was  large  enough  to  admit 
of  my  having  a  cabin  to  myself,  for  I  should  have  been 
ashamed  of  my  comrades  hearing  the  cries  that  sometimes  burst 
from  me  in  the  night. 

It  is  hard  for  civilised  men  at  home,  accustomed  to  hold 
themselves  under  control,  to  realise  how  a  man's  mind  can 
run  away  from  him  when  he  is  thousands  of  miles  separated 
from  his  dear  ones,  and  has  a  kind  of  spiritual  certainty  that 
evil  is  befalling  them. 

I  don  ?t  think  I  am  a  bigger  fool  than  most  men  in  that  way, 
but  I  shiver  even  yet  at  the  memory  of  all  the  torment  I  went 
through  during  those  days  of  waiting,  for  my  whole  life 
seemed  to  revolve  before  me  and  I  accused  myself  of  a  thou- 
sand offences  which  I  had  thought  dead  and  buried  and 
forgotten. 

Some  of  these  were  trivial  in  themselves,  such  as  hot  and 
intemperate  words  spoken  in  childhood  to  my  good  old  people 
at  home,  disobedience  or  ingratitude  shown  to  them,  with  all 
the  usual  actions  of  a  naughty  boy,  who  ought  to  have  been 
spanked  and  never  was. 

But  the  worst  of  them  concerned  my  darling,  and  came  with 
the  thought  of  my  responsibility  for  the  situation  in  which  I 
felt  sure  she  found  herself. 

A  thousand  times  I  took  myself  to  task  for  that,  thinking 


I  AM  LOST  433 

what  I  ought  and  ought  not  to  have  done,  and  then  giving 
myself  every  bad  name  and  my  conduct  every  damning 
epithet. 

Up  and  down  my  cabin  I  would  walk  with  hands  buried  in 
my  pockets,  revolving  these  thoughts  and  working  myself  up, 
against  my  will,  to  a  fever  of  regret  and  self -accusation. 

Talk  about  Purgatory — the  Purgatory  of  dear  old  Father 
Dan !  That  was  to  come  after  death — mine  came  before,  and 
by  the  holy  saints,  I  had  enough  of  it. 

Two  months  passed  like  this;  and  when  the  water  of  the 
Sound  was  open  and  our  ship  did  not  appear,  mine  was  not 
the  only  heart  that  was  eating  itself  out,  for  the  spirits  of  my 
shipmates  had  also  begun  to  sink. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  Antarctic  spring  there  had  been  a 
fearful  hurricane  lasting  three  days  on  the  sea,  with  a  shriek- 
ing, roaring  chorus  of  fiends  outside,  and  the  conviction  now 
forced  itself  on  my  men  that  our  ship  must  have  gone  down 
in  the  storm. 

Of  course  I  fought  this  notion  hard,  for  my  last  hopes  were 
based  on  not  believing  it.  But  when  after  the  lapse  of  weeks 
I  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and  we  were  confronted  by  the 
possibility  of  being  held  there  another  year  (for  how  were  our 
friends  to  know  before  the  ice  formed  again  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  send  relief?),  I  faced  the  situation  firmly — measuring 
out  our  food  and  putting  the  men  on  shortened  rations, 
twenty-eight  ounces  each  and  a  thimbleful  of  brandy. 

By  the  Lord  God  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  stand  face  to  face 
with  slow  death.  Some  of  my.  shipmates  could  scarcely  bear 
it.  The  utter  solitude,  the  sight  of  the  same  faces  and  the 
sound  of  the  same  voices,  with  the  prospect  of  nothing  else, 
seemed  to  drive  most  of  them  nearly  mad. 

There  was  no  sing-songing  among  them  now,  and  what 
speaking  I  overheard  was  generally  about  the  great  dinners 
they  had  eaten,  or  about  their  dreams,  which  were  usually  of 
green  fields  and  .  flower-beds  and  primroses  and  daisies — 
daisies,  by  heaven,  in  a  world  that  was  like  a  waste ! 

As  for  me  I  did  my  best  to  play  the  game  of  never  giving 
up.  It  was  a  middling  hard  game,  God  knows,  and  after 
weeks  of  waiting  a  sense  of  helplessness  settled  down  on  me 
such  as  I  had  never  known  before. 

I  am  not  what  is  called  a  religious  man,  but  when  I  thought 
of  my  darling's  danger  (for  such  I  was  sure  it  was)  and  how 
I  was  cut  off  from  her  by  thousands  of  miles  of  impassable 

2E 


434 

sea,   there   came  an   overwhelming  longing  to  go  with  my 
troubles  to  somebody  stronger  than  myself. 

I  found  it  hard  to  do  that  at  first,  for  a  feeling  of  shame 
came  over  me,  and  I  thought: 

"You  coward,  you  forgot  all  about  God  when  things  were 
going  well  with  you,  but  now  that  they  are  tumbling  down, 
and  death  seems  certain,  you  whine  and  want  to  go  where  you 
never  dreamt  of  going  in  your  days  of  ease  and  strength." 

I  got  over  that,  though — there's  nothing  except  death  a 
man  doesn't  get  over  down  there — and  a  dark  night  came 
when  (the  ice  breaking  from  the  cliffs  of  the  Cape  with  a 
sound  that  made  me  think  of  my  last  evening  at  Castle  Raa)  I 
found  myself  folding  my  hands  and  praying  to  the  God  of 
my  childhood,  not  for  myself  but  for  my  dear  one,  that  He 
before  whom  the  strongest  of  humanity  were  nothing  at  all, 
would  take  her  into  His  Fatherly  keeping. 

"Help  her!     Help  her!     /  can  do  no  more." 

It  was  just  when  I  was  down  to  that  extremity  that  it 
pleased  Providence  to  come  to  my  relief.  The  very  next 
morning  I  was  awakened  out  of  my  broken  sleep  by  the  sound 
of  a  gun,  followed  by  such  a  yell  from  Treacle  as  was  enough 
to  make  you  think  the  sea-serpent  had  got  hold  of  his  old 
buttocks. 

' '  The  ship !  The  ship !  Commander !  Commander !  The 
ship!  The  ship!" 

And,  looking  out  of  my  little  window  I  saw  him,  with  six  or 
seven  other  members  of  our  company,  half  naked,  just  as  they 
had  leapt  out  of  their  bunks,  running  like  savages  to  the 
edge  of  the  sea,  where  the  "Scotia,"  with  all  flags  flying 
(God  bless  and  preserve  her!),  was  steaming  slowly  up 
through  a  grinding  pack  of  broken  ice. 

What  a  day  that  was!  What  shouting!  What  hand- 
shaking! For  0 'Sullivan  it  was  Donnybrook  Fair  with  the 
tail  of  his  coat  left  out,  and  for  Treacle  it  was  Whitechapel 
Road  with  "What  cheer,  old  cock?"  and  an  unquenchable 
desire  to  stand  treat  all  round. 

But  what  I  chiefly  remember  is  that  the  moment  I  awoke, 
and  before  the  idea  that  we  were  saved  and  about  to  go  home 
had  been  fully  grasped  by  my  hazy  brain,  the  thought  flashed 
to  my  mind: 

"Now  you'll  hear  of  her!" 

M.  C. 
[END  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 


I  AM  LOST  435 

NINETY-FIFTH   CHAPTER 

THE  door  of  No.  10  was  opened  by  a  rather  uncomely  woman 
of  perhaps  thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  weak  face  and  watery 
eyes. 

This  was  Mrs.  Oliver,  and  it  occurred  to  me  even  at  that 
first  sight  that  she  had  the  frightened  and  evasive  look  of  a 
wife  who  lives  under  the  intimidation  of  a  tyrannical  husband. 

She  welcomed  me,  however,  with  a  warmth  that  partly  dis- 
pelled my  depression  and  I  followed  her  into  the  kitchen. 

It  was  the  only  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  her  house 
(except  a  scullery)  and  it  seemed  sweet  and  clean  and  com- 
fortable, having  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  sofa 
under  the  window,  a  rocking-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace, 
a  swinging  baby's  cot  on  the  other  side,  and  nothing  about 
it  that  was  not  homelike  and  reassuring,  except  two  large 
photographs  over  the  mantelpiece  of  men  stripped  to  the 
waist  and  sparring. 

"We've  been  looking  for  you  all  day,  ma'am,  and  had 
nearly  give  you  up,"  she  said. 

Then  she  took  baby  out  of  my  arms,  removed  her  bonnet 
and  pelisse,  lifted  her  barrow-coat  to  examine  her  limbs,  asked 
her  age,  kissed  her  on  the  arms,  the  neck  and  the  legs,  and 
praised  her  without  measure. 

"And  what's  her  name,  ma'am?" 

"Mary  Isabel,  but  I  wish  her  to  be  called  Isabel." 

' '  Isabel !  A  beautiful  name  too !  Fit  for  a  angel,  ma  'am. 
And  she  is  a  little  angel,  bless  her !  Such  rosy  cheeks !  Such 
a  ducky  little  mouth !  Such  blue  eyes — blue  as  the  blue-bells 
in  the  eemet'ry.  She's  as  pretty  as  a  waxwork,  she  really  is, 
and  any  woman  in  the  world  might  be  proud  to  nurse  her. ' ' 

A  young  mother  is  such  a  weakling  that  praise  of  her 
child  (howrever  crude)  acts  like  a  charm  on  her,  and  in  spite 
of  myself  I  was  beginning  to  feel  more  at  ease,  when  Mrs. 
Oliver's  husband  came  downstairs. 

He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man  of  about  thirty-five,  with  a 
square  chin,  a  very  thick  neck  and  a  close-cropped  red  bullet 
head,  and  he  was  in  his  stocking  feet  and  shirt-sleeves  as  if 
he  had  been  dressing  to  go  out  for  the  evening. 

I  remember  that  it  flashed  upon  me — I  don't  know  why — • 
that  he  had  seen  me  from  the  window  of  the  room  upstairs, 
driving  up  in  the  old  man's  four-wheeler,  and  had  drawn 


436  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

from  that  innocent  circumstance  certain  deductions  about  my 
character  and  my  capacity  to  pay. 

I  must  have  been  right,  for  as  soon  as  our  introduction  was 
over  and  I  had  interrupted  Mrs.  Oliver's  praises  of  my  baby's 
beauty  by  speaking  about  material  matters,  saying  the  terms 
were  to  be  four  shillings,  the  man,  who  had  seated  himself  on 
the  sofa  to  put  on  his  boots  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  like  a 
shot  out  of  a  blunderbus: 

"Five." 

"How'd  you  mean,  Ted?"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  timidly. 
"Didn't  we  say  four?" 

"Five,"  said  the  man  again,  with  a  still  louder  volume  of 
voice. 

I  could  see  that  the  poor  woman  was  trembling,  but  assum- 
ing the  sweet  air  of  persons  who  live  in  a  constant  state  of 
fear,  she  said: 

"  Oh  yes.     It  was  five,  now  I  remember." 

I  reminded  her  that  her  letter  had  said  four,  but  she 
insisted  that  I  must  be  mistaken,  and  when  I  told  her  I  had 
the  letter  with  me  and  she  could  see  it  if  she  wished,  she  said : 

"Then  it  must  have  been  a  slip  of  the  pen  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  ma'am.  We  allus  talked  of  five.  Didn't  we,  Ted?" 

' '  Certainly, ' '  said  her  husband,  who  was  still  busy  with  his 
boots. 

I  saw  what  was  going  on,  and  I  felt  hot  and  angry,  but 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  do  except  submit. 

"Very  well,  we'll  say  five  then,"  I  said. 

"Paid  in  advance,"  said  the  man,  and  when  I  answered 
that  that  would  suit  me  very  well,  he  added: 

"A  month  in  advance,  you  know." 

By  this  time  I  felt  myself  trembling  with  indignation,  as 
well  as  quivering  with  fear,  for  while  I  looked  upon  all  the 
money  I  possessed  as  belonging  to  baby,  to  part  with  almost 
the  whole  of  it  in  one  moment  would  reduce  me  to  utter  help- 
lessness, so  I  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Oliver: 

"Is  that  usual?" 

It  did  not  escape  me  that  the  unhappy  woman  was  con- 
stantly studying  her  husband's  face,  and  when  he  glanced  up 
at  her  with  a  meaning  look  she  answered,  hurriedly: 

"Oh  yes,  ma'am,  quite  usual.  All  the  women  in  the  Row 
has  it.  Number  five,  she  has  twins  and  gets  a  month  in 
hand  with  both  of  them.  But  we'll  take  four  weeks  and  I 
can't  say  no  fairer  than  that,  can  I?" 


I  AM  LOST  437 

"But  why?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  you  see,  ma'am,  you're  .  .  .  you're  a  stranger  to 
us,  and  if  baby  was  left  on  our  hands  .  .  .  Not  as  we  think 
you'd  leave  her  chargeable  as  the  saying  is,  but  if  you  were 
ever  ill,  and  got  a  bit  back  with  your  payments  ...  we 
being  only  pore  people.  ..." 

While  the  poor  woman  was  floundering  on  in  this  way  my 
blood  was  boiling  and  I  was  beginning  to  ask  her  if  she  sup- 
posed for  one  moment  that  I  meant  to  desert  my  child,  when 
the  man,  who  had  finished  the  lacing  of  his  boots,  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  said: 

' '  You  don 't  want  yer  baiby  to  be  give  over  to  the  Guardians 
for  the  sake  of  a  week  or  two,  do  you  ? ' ' 

That  settled  everything.  I  took  out  my  purse  and  with  a 
trembling  hand  laid  my  last  precious  sovereign  on  the  table. 

A  moment  or  two  after  this  Mr.  Oliver,  who  had  put  on  his 
coat  and  a  cloth  cap,  made  for  the  door. 

"Evenin',  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  with  what  grace  I  could 
muster  I  bade  him  good-bye. 

"You  aren't  a-going  to  the  'Sun'  to-night,  are  you,  Ted?" 
asked  Mrs.  Oliver. 

' '  Club, ' '  said  the  man,  and  the  door  clashed  behind  him. 

I  breathed  more  freely  when  he  was  gone,  and  his  wife 
(from  whose  face  the  look  of  fear  vanished  instantly)  was 
like  another  woman. 

"Goodness  gracious,"  she  cried,  with  a  kind  of  haggard 
hilarity,  " where 's  my.  head?  Me  never  offering  you  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  you  looking  so  white  after  your  journey." 

I  took  baby  back  into  my  arms  while  she  put  on  the  kettle, 
set  a  black  tea-pot  on  the  hob  to  warm,  laid  a  piece  of  table- 
cloth and  a  thick  cup  and  saucer  on  the  end  of  the  table,  and 
then  knelt  on  the  fender  to  toast  a  little  bread,  talking  mean- 
time (half  apologetically  and  half  proudly)  about  her  husband. 

He  was  a  bricklayer  by  trade,  and  sometimes  worked  at  the 
cemetery  which  I  could  see  at  the  other  side  of  the  road 
(behind  the  long  railings  and  the  tall  trees),  but  was  more 
generally  engaged  as  a  sort  of  fighting  lieutenant  to  a  Labour 
leader  whose  business  it  was  to  get  up  strikes.  Before  they 
were  married  he  had  been  the  "Light  Weight  Champion  of 
Whitechapel, "  and  those  were  photos  of  his  fights  which  I 
could  see  over  the  mantelpiece,  but  "he  never  did  no  knock- 
ing of  people  about  now,"  being  "quiet  and  matrimonual. " 

In  spite  of  myself  my  heart  warmed  to  the  woman.     I 


438  THE  WOMAN  THOU  G  A  VEST  ME 

wonder  it  did  not  occur  to  me  there  and  then  that,  living  in 
constant  dread  of  her  tyrannical  husband,  she  would  always 
be  guilty  of  the  dissimulation  I  had  seen  an  example  of  al- 
ready and  that  the  effect  of  it  would  be  reflected  upon  my 
child. 

It  did  not.  I  only  told  myself  that  she  was  clearly  fond  of 
children  and  would  be  a  kind  nurse  to  my  baby.  It  even 
pleased  me,  in  my  foolish  motherly  selfishness,  that  she  was  a 
plain-featured  person,  whom  baby  could  never  come  to  love 
as  she  would,  I  was  sure,  love  me. 

I  felt  better  after  I  had  taken  tea,  and  as  it  was  then  seven 
o'clock,  and  the  sun  was  setting  horizontally  through  the 
cypresses  of  the  cemetery,  I  knew  it  was  time  to  go. 

I  could  not  do  that,  though,  without  undressing  baby  and 
singing  her  to  sleep.  And  even  then  I  sat  for  a  while  with  an 
aching  heart,  and  Isabel  on  my  knee,  thinking  of  how  I  should 
have  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  for  the  first  time,  without  her. 

Mrs.  Oliver,  in  the  meantime,  examining  the  surplus  linen 
which  I  had  brought  in  my  parcel,  was  bursting  into 
whispered  cries  of  delight  over  it,  and,  being  told  I  had  made 
the  clothes  myself,  was  saying: 

"What  a  wonderful  seamstress  you  might  be  if  you  liked, 
ma  'am. ' ' 

At  length  the  time  came  to  leave  baby,  and  no  woman 
knows  the  pain  of  that  experience  who  has  not  gone  through  it. 

Though  I  really  believed  my  darling  would  be  loved  and 
cared  for,  and  knew  she  would  never  miss  me,  or  yet  know 
that  I  was  gone  (there  was  a  pang  even  in  that  thought,  and 
in  every  other  kind  of  comforting ) ,  I  could  not  help  it,  that, 
as  I  was  putting  my  cherub  into  her  cot,  my  tears  rained 
down  on  her  little  face  and  awakened  her,  so  that  I  had  to 
kneel  by  her  side  and  rock  her  to  sleep  again. 

"You  11  be  good  to  my  child,  won't  you,  Mrs.  Oliver?"  I 
said. 

"  'Deed  I  will,  ma'am,"  the  woman  replied. 

"You'll  bath  her  every  day,  will  you  not?" 

"Night  and  morning.    I  allus  does,  ma'am." 

"And  rinse  out  her  bottle  and  see  that  she  has  nice  new 
milk  fresh  from  the  cow?" 

"Sure  as  sure,  ma'am.  But  don't  you  fret  no  more  about 
the  child,  ma'am.  I've  been  a  mother  myself,  ma'am,  and 
111  be  as  good  to  your  little  angel  as  if  she  was  my  own 
come  back  to  me. ' ' 


I  AM  LOST  439 

"God  bless  you,"  I  said  in  a  burst  of  anguish,  and  after 
remaining  a  moment  longer  on  my  knees  by  the  cot  (speaking 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  though  neither  to  nurse  nor  to 
baby)  I  rose  to  my  feet,  dashed  the  tears  from  my  eyes,  and 
ran  out  of  the  house. 


NINETY-SIXTH  CHAPTER 

I  KNEW  that  my  eyes  were  not  fit  to  be  seen  in  the  streets,  so 
I  dropped  my  dark  veil  and  hurried  along,  being  conscious 
of  nothing  for  some  time  except  the  clang  of  electric  cars  and 
the  bustle  of  passers-by,  to  whom  my  poor  little  sorrow  was 
nothing  at  all. 

But  I  had  not  gone  far — I  think  I  had  not,  though  my 
senses  were  confused  and  vague — before  I  began  to  feel 
ashamed,  to  take  myself  to  task,  and  to  ask  what  I  had  to 
cry  about. 

If  I  had  parted  from  my  baby  it  was  for  her  own  good,  and 
if  I  had  paid  away  my  last  sovereign  I  had  provided  for  her 
for  a  month,  I  had  nothing  to  think  of  now  except  myself 
and  how  to  get  work. 

I  never  doubted  that  I  should  get  work,  or  that  I  should 
get  it  immediately,  the  only  open  question  being  what  work 
and  where. 

Hitherto  I  had  thought  that,  being  quick  with  my  pen,  I 
might  perhaps  become  secretary  to  somebody;  but  now, 
remembering  the  typist's  story  ("firms  don't  like  it"),  and 
wishing  to  run  no  risks  in  respect  of  my  child,  I  put  that 
expectation  away  and  began  to  soar  to  higher  things. 

How  vain  they  were!  Remembering  some  kind  words  the 
Reverend  Mother  had  said  about  me  at  the  convent  (where  I 
had  taken  more  prizes  than  Alma,  though  I  had  never  men- 
tioned it  before)  I  told  myself  that  I,  too,  was  an  educated 
woman.  '  I  knew  Italian,  French  and  German,  and  having 
heard  that  some  women  could  make  a  living  by  translating 
books  for  publishers  I  thought  I  might  do  the  same. 

Nay,  I  could  even  write  books  myself.  I  was  sure  I  could — 
one  book  at  all  events,  about  friendless  girls  who  have  to  face 
the  world  for  themselves,  and  all  good  women  would  read  it 
(some  good  men  also),  because  they  would  see  that  it  must 
be  true. 

Oh,  how  vain  were  my  thoughts!     Yet  in  another  sense 


440 

they  were  not  all  vanity,  for  I  was  not  thinking  of  fame,  or 
what  people  would  say  about  what  I  should  write,  but  only 
what  I  should  get  for  it. 

I  should  get  money,  not  a  great  deal  perhaps,  yet  enough 
for  baby  and  me,  that  we  might  have  that  cottage  in  the 
country,  covered  with  creepers  and  roses,  where  Isabel  would 
run  about  the  grass  by  and  by,  and  pluck  the  flowers  in  the 
garden. 

' '  So  what  have  you  got  to  cry  about,  you  ridiculous  thing, ' ' 
I  thought  while  I  hurried  along,  with  a  high  step  now,  as  if 
my  soul  had  been  in  my  feet. 

But  a  mother's  visions  of  the  future  are  like  a  mirage 
(always  gleaming  with  the  fairy  palaces  which  her  child  is  to 
inhabit  some  day),  and  I  am  not  the  first  to  find  her  shadows 
fade  away. 

I  must  have  been  walking  for  some  time,  feeling  no  weari- 
ness at  all,  when  I  came  to  the  bridge  by  Bow  Church.  There 
I  had  intended  to  take  a  tram,  but  not  being  tired  I  went  on 
farther,  thinking  every  stage  I  could  walk  would  be  so  much 
money  to  the  good. 

I  was  deep  in  the  Mile  End  Eoad,  when  a  chilling  thought 
came  to  me.  It  was  the  thought  of  the  distance  that  would 
divide  me  from  my  child,  making  my  visits  to  her  difficult, 
and  putting  it  out  of  my  power  to  reach  her  quickly  (perhaps 
even  to  know  in  time)  if,  as  happened  to  children,  she  be- 
came suddenly  and  dangerously  ill. 

I  remembered  the  long  line  of  telescoping  thoroughfares  I 
had  passed  through  earlier  in  the  day  (with  their  big  hospitals, 
their  big  breweries,  their  big  tabernacles,  their  workmen's 
lodging-houses,  their  Cinema  picture  palaces,  their  Jewish 
theatres,  and  their  numberless  public  houses)  ;  and  then  the 
barrier  of  squalid  space  which  would  divide  me  from  baby,  if 
I  obtained  employment  in  the  "West  End,  seemed  to  be  im- 
measurably greater  and  more  frightening  than  the  space 
that  had  divided  me  from  Martin  when  he  was  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world. 

Not  all  the  allurements  of  my  dream  were  sufficient  to 
reconcile  me  to  such  a  dangerous  separation. 

"It's  impossible,"  I  thought.    "Quite  impossible." 

Insensibly  my  rapid  footsteps  slackened.  When  I  reached 
that  part  of  the  Mile  End  Road  in  which  the  Jewish  tailors 
live,  and  found  myself  listening  to  a  foreign  language  which  I 
afterwards  knew  to  be  Yiddish,  and  looking  at  men  with 


I  AM  LOST  441 

curls  at  each  side  of  their  sallow  faces,  slithering  along  as  if 
they  were  wearing  eastern  slippers  without  heels,  I  stopped, 
without  knowing  why,  at  the  corner  of  a  street  where  an 
Italian  organ-man  was  playing  while  a  number  of  bright- 
eyed  Jewish  children  danced. 

I  was  still  looking  on,  hardly  thinking  of  what  I  saw,  when 
my  eyes  fell  on  an  advertisement,  pasted  on  the  window  of  a 
sausage-and-ham  shop  at  the  corner.  In  large  written  char- 
acters it  ran: 

Seamstress  Wanted.    Good  Wages. 
Apply  No.  —  Washington  Street. 

How  little  are  the  things  on  which  our  destiny  seems  to 
hang!  In  a  moment  I  was  remembering  what  Mrs.  Oliver 
had  said  about  my  being  a  good  seamstress;  and,  almost  be- 
fore I  knew  what  I  was  about,  I  was  hurrying  up  the  side 
street  and  knocking  with  my  knuckles  at  an  open  door. 

A  rather  fat  and  elderly  Jewess,  covered  with  rings  and 
gold  chains,  and  wearing  a  manifest  black  wig,  came  from  a 
room  at  one  side  of  the  lobby.  I  explained  my  errand,  and 
after  she  had  looked  me  over  in  a  sort  of  surprise,  as  if  I  had 
not  been  the  kind  of  person  she  expected,  she  said,  in  a  nasal 
and  guttural  voice: 

"Vait!    My  daughter,  she  speaks  very  veil  Ainglish. " 

Then  turning  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  she  pitched  her 
voice  several  octaves  higher  and  cried,  "Miriam,"  whereupon 
there  came  tripping  downstairs  a  Jewish  girl  of  about 
eighteen,  with  large  black  eyes,  thick  black  hair,  and  such  a 
dear*  good  face. 

I  repeated  my  application,  and  after  the  girl  had  in- 
terpreted my  request  to  her  mother,  I  was  asked  into  the 
lobby,  and  put  through  a  kind  of  catechism. 

Was  I  a  seamstress?  No,  but  I  wished  to  become  one. 
Had  I  aiver  vorked  on  vaistcoats?  I  hadn't,  but  I  could  do 
anything  with  my  needle. 

Perhaps  the  urgency  of  my  appeal,  and  more  probably  the 
pressure  of  her  own  need,  weighed  with  the  Jewess,  for  after 
reflection,  and  an  eager  whisper  from  her  daughter  (who  was 
looking  at  me  with  kindling  eyes),  she  said, 

"Very  veil,  veil  see  what  she  can  do." 

I  was  then  taken  into  a  close  and  stuffy  room  where  a 
number  of  girls  (all  Jewish  as  I  could  see)  were  working  on 
sections  of  waistcoats,  which,  lying  about  on  every  side, 


442  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

looked  like  patterns  for  legs  of  mutton.  One  girl  was  basting, 
another  was  pressing,  and  a  third  was  sewing  button-holes 
with  a  fine  silk  twist  round  bars  of  gimp. 

This  last  was  the  work  which  was  required  of  me,  and  I 
was  told  to  look  and  see  if  I  could  do  it.  I  watched  the  girl 
for  a  moment  and  then  said: 

"Let  me  try." 

Needle  and  twist  and  one  of  the  half  vests  were  then  given 
to  me,  and  after  ten  minutes  I  had  worked  my  first  button- 
hole and  handed  it  back. 

The  daughter  praised  it  warmly,  but  the  mother  said: 

"Very  fair,  but  a  leedle  slow." 

"Let  me  try  again,"  I  said,  and  my  trembling  fingers 
were  so  eager  to  please  that  my  next  button-hole  was  not  only 
better  but  more  quickly  made. 

"Beautiful!"  said  the  daughter.  "And  mamma,  only 
think,  she's  quicker  than  Leah,  already.  I  tuned  them." 

"I  muz  call  your  vader,  dough,"  said  the  Jewess,  and  she 
disappeared  through  the  doorway. 

"While  I  stood  talking  to  the  younger  Jewess,  who  had,  I 
could  see,  formed  as  quick  an  attachment  for  me  as  I  for  her, 
I  heard  another  nasal  and  guttural  voice  (a  man's)  coming 
towards  us  from  the  hall. 

"Is  she  von  of  our  people?" 

"Nein!  She's  a  Skihoah" — meaning,  as  I  afterwards 
learned,  a  non-Jewish  girl. 

Then  a  tall,  thin  Jew  entered  the  room  behind  the  elderly 
Jewess.  I  had  never  before  and  have  never  since  seen  such 
a  patriarchal  figure.  With  his  long  grey  beard  and  solemn 
face  he  might  have  stood  for  Moses  in  one  of  the  pictures  that 
used  to  hang  on  the  walls  of  the  convent — except  for  his  vel- 
vet skull-cap  and  the  black  alpaca  apron,  which  was  speckled 
over  with  fluffy  bits  of  thread  and  scraps  of  cloth  and  silk. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  his  keen  eyes,  and  after 
his  wife  had  shown  him  my  work,  and  he  had  taken  a  pinch  of 
snuff  and  blown  his  nose  on  a  coloured  handkerchief  with  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet,  he  put  me  through  another  catechism. 

I  was  trembling  lest  he  should  make  intimate  inquiries,  but 
beyond  asking  my  name,  and  whether  I  was  a  Christian,  he 
did  not  concern  himself  with  personal  questions. 

"Vat  vages  do  you  vant?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  I  should  be  pleased  to  take  whatever  was  paid 
to  other  girls  doing  work  of  the  same  kind. 


I  AM  LOST  443 

"Ach  no!  Dese  girls  are  full-timers.  You  are  only  a 
greener  [meaning  a  beginner]  so  you  vill  not  expect  any- 
thing like  so  much." 

At  that  his  daughter  repeated  her  assurance  that  I  was 
quicker  than  the  girl  she  had  called  Leah ;  but  the  Jew,  with 
an  air  of  parental  majesty,  told  her  to  be  silent,  and  then  said 
that  as  I  was  an  "improver"  he  could  only  take  me  "on 
piece,"  naming  the  price  (a  very  small  one)  per  half-dozen 
buttons  and  buttonholes,  with  the  condition  that  I  found  my 
own  twist  and  did  the  work  in  my  own  home. 

Seeing  that  I  should  be  no  match  for  the  Jew  at  a  bargain, 
and  being  so  eager  to  get  to  work  at  any  price,  I  closed  with 
his  offer,  and  then  he  left  the  room,  after  telling  me  to  come 
back  the  next  day. 

"And  vhere  do  you  lif,  my  dear?"  said  the  Jewess. 

I  told  her  Bayswater,  making  some  excuse  for  being  in  the 
East  End,  and  getting  as  near  to  the  truth  as  I  dare  venture, 
but  feeling  instinctively,  after  my  sight  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  that  I  dared  say  nothing  about  my  child. 

She  told  me  I  must  live  nearer  to  my  work,  and  I  said  that 
was  exactly  what  I  wished  to  do — asking  if  she  knew  where 
I  could  find  a  room. 

Fortunately  the  Jewess  herself  had  two  rooms  vacant  at 
that  moment,  and  we  went  upstairs  to  look  at  them. 

Both  were  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  one  of  them  I  could 
have  for  two  shillings  a  week,  but  it  was  dark  and  cheerless, 
being  at  the  back  and  looking  into  the  space  over  the  yards  in 
which  the  tenants  dried  their  washing  on  lines  stretched  from 
pulleys. 

The  other,  which  would  cost  a  shilling  a  week  more,  was  a 
lean  slit  of  a  room,  very  sparsely  furnished,  but  it  was  to  the 
front,  and  looked  down  into  the  varied  life  of  the  street,  so  I 
took  it  instantly  and  asked  when  I  could  move  in. 

"Ven  you  like,"  said  the  Jewess.    "Everyding  is  ready." 

So,  early  next  morning  I  bade  farewell  to  my  good  Welsh 
landlady  (who  looked  grave  when  I  told  her  what  I  was  going 
to  do)  and  to  Emmerjane  (who  cried  when  I  kissed  her 
smudgy  face)  and,  taking  possession  of  my  new  home,  began 
work  immediately  in  my  first  and  only  employment. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  deep  decline  after  the  splendours  of  my 
dreams,  but  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  think  about  that.  I 
was  near  to  Ilf  ord  and  I  could  go  to  see  Isabel  every  day. 

Isabel!     Isabel!     Isabel!     Everything  was  Isabel,  for  now 


444  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

that  Martin  was  gone  my  hopes  and  my  fears,  my  love  and 
my  life,  revolved  on  one  axis  only — my  child. 

NINETY-SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

MY  employer  was  a  Polish  Jew,  named  Israel  Abramovitch. 

He  had  come  to  England  at  the  time  of  the  religious  persecu- 
tion in  the  Holy  Cities  of  Russia,  set  himself  up  in  his  trade 
as  a  tailor  in  a  garret  in  Whitechapel,  hired  a  "Singer," 
worked  with  "green"  labour  for  "slop"  warehouses,  and  be- 
come in  less  than  twenty  years  the  richest  foreign  Jew  in  the 
East  End  of  London,  doing  some  of  the  "best  bespoke"  work 
for  the  large  shops  in  the  West  and  having  the  reputation 
(as  I  afterwards  found)  of  being  the  greatest  of  Jewish 
"sweaters." 

In  spite  of  this,  however,  he  was  in  his  own  way  a  deeply 
religious  man.  Strict,  severe,  almost  superstitious  in  obeying 
the  Levitical  laws  and  in  practising  the  sad  and  rather  gloomy 
symbolism  of  his  faith.  A  famous  Talmudist,  a  pillar  of  the 
synagogue,  one  of  the  two  wardens  of  the  Chevra  in  Brick 
Lane,  and  consequently  a  great  upholder  of  moral  rectitude. 

His  house  seemed  to  be  a  solid  mass  of  human  beings, 
chiefly  Jewish  girls,  who  worked  all  day,  and  sometimes  (when 
regulations  could  be  evaded  or  double  gangs  engaged)  all 
night,  for  the  Jew  drove  everybody  at  high  speed,  not  ex- 
cepting his  wife,  who  cooked  the  food  and  pressed  the  clothes 
at  the  same  time. 

In  this  hive  of  industry  I  needed  no  spur  to  make  me  work. 

Every,  morning  Mrs.  Abramovitch  brought  up  a  thick  pile 
of  vests  to  my  room,  and  every  evening  she  took  them  down 
again,  after  counting  my  earnings  with  almost  preternatural 
rapidity  and  paying  me,  day  by  day,  with  unfailing  prompti- 
tude. 

At  the  end  of  my  first  week  I  found  I  had  made  ten 
shillings.  I  was  delighted,  but  after  I  had  paid  for  my  room 
and  my  food  there  was  not  enough  for  baby's  board,  so  the 
second  week  I  worked  later  in  the  evenings,  and  earned  four- 
teen shillings.  This  was  still  insufficient,  therefore  I  deter- 
mined to  take  something  from  the  other  end  of  the  day. 

"Morning  will  be  better,"  I  thought,  remembering  the 
painful  noises  at  night,  especially  about  midnight,  when 
people  were  being  thrown  out  of  a  public-house  higher  up  the 
street,  where  there  was  a  placard  in  the  window  saying  the 


I  AM  LOST  445 

ale  sold  there  could  be  guaranteed  to  "make  anybody  drunk 
for  fourpence. " 

Unfortunately  (being  a  little  weak)  I  was  always  heavy  in 
the  mornings,  but  by  great  luck  my  room  faced  the  east,  so 
I  conceived  the  idea  of  moving  my  bed  up  to  the  window  and 
drawing  my  blinds  to  the  top  so  that  the  earliest  light  might 
fall  on  my  face  and  waken  me. 

This  device  succeeded  splendidly,  and  for  many  weeks  of 
the  late  summer  and  early  autumn  I  was  up  before  the  sun,  as 
soon  as  the  dawn  had  broadened  and  while  the  leaden  London 
daylight  was  filtering  through  the  smoke  of  yesterday. 

By  this  means  I  increased  my  earnings  to  sixteen  shillings, 
and,  as  my  fingers  learned  to  fly  over  their  work,  to  seven- 
teen and  even  eighteen. 

That  was  my  maximum,  and  though  it  left  a  narrow 
margin  for  other  needs  it  enabled  me  at  the  end  if  a  month 
to  pay  another  pound  for  baby's  board  and  to  put  away  a 
little  towards  her  "shortening,"  which  Mrs.  Oliver  was  al- 
ways saying  must  be  soon. 

I  had  to  stick  close  to  maintain  this  average,  and  1  grudged 
even  the  time  occupied  in  buying  and  eating  my  food,  though 
that  was  not  a  long  process  in  the  Mile  End  Road,  which  is 
full  of  shops  where  things  can  be  bought  ready  cooked. 
After  the  first  week  I  did  not  even  need  to  go  out  for  them, 
for  they  were  brought  round  to  my  room  every  morning,  thus 
enabling  me  to  live  without  leaving  my  work. 

It  was  a  stiff  life,  perhaps,  but  let  nobody  think  I  looked 
upon  myself  as  a  slave.  Though  I  worked  so  hard  I  felt  no 
self-pity.  The  thought  that  I  was  working  for  my  child 
sweetened  all  my  labours.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  think  that 
baby  depended  upon  me  for  everything  she  wanted. 

Being  so  happy  in  those  days  I  sang  a  great  deal,  though 
naturally  not  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  when  our  house  was 
going  like  a  mill-wheel,  but  in  the  early  mornings  before  the 
electric  trams  began  to  clang,  or  the  hawkers  with  their  bar- 
rows to  shout,  and  when  there  was  no  sound  even  in  the  East 
End  except  that  ceaseless  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  in  the  front 
street  which  always  made  me  think  of  the  children  of  Israel 
in  Egypt  drawing  burdens  for  Pharaoh. 

Throwing  open  my  window  I  sang  all  sorts  of  things,  but, 
being  such  a  child  myself  and  so  fond  of  make-believe,  I 
loved  best  to  sing  my  lullaby,  and  so  pretend  that  baby  was 
with  me  in  my  room,  lying  asleep  behind  me  in  my  bed. 


446  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"Sleep,  little  ~bdby,  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee, 
Sleep,  little  Queen,  I  am  bending  above  thee." 

I  never  knew  that  I  had  any  other  audience  than  a  lark  in 
a  cage  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  (perhaps  I  was  in  a 
cage  myself,  though  I  did  not  think  of  that  then)  which  al- 
ways started  singing  when  I  sang,  except  the  washerwomen 
from  a  Women's  Shelter  going  off  at  four  to  their  work  at 
the  West  End,  and  two  old  widows  opposite  who  sewed 
Bibles  and  stitched  cassocks,  which  being  (so  Miriam  told 
me)  the  worst-paid  of  all  sweated  labour  compelled  them  to 
be  up  as  early  as  myself. 

It  was  not  a  very  hopeful  environment,  yet  for  some  time, 
in  my  little  top  room,  I  was  really  happy. 

I  saw  baby  every  day.  Between  six  and  nine  every  night, 
I  broke  off  work  to  go  to  Ilford,  saying  nothing  about  my 
errand  to  anybody,  and  leaving  the  family  of  the  Jew  to 
think  it  was  my  time  for  recreation. 

Generally  I  "trammed"  it  from  Bow  Church,  because  I 
was  so  eager  to  get  to  my  journey's  end,  but  usually  I  re- 
turned on  foot,  for  though  the  distance  was  great  I  thought  I 
slept  better  for  the  walk. 

What  joyful  evenings  those  were! 

Perhaps  I  was  not  altogether  satisfied  about  the  Olivers,  but 
that  did  not  matter  very  much.  On  closer  acquaintance  I 
found  my  baby's  nurse  to  be  a  "heedless"  and  "feckless" 
woman ;  and  though  I  told  myself  that  all  allowances  must  be 
made  for  her  in  having  a  bad  husband,  I  knew  in  my  secret 
heart  that  I  was  deceiving  myself,  and  that  I  ought  to  listen  to 
the  voices  that  were  saying  "Your  child  is  being  neglected." 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  that  baby  had  not  been  bathed — 
but  that  only  gave  me  an  excuse  for  bathing  her  myself. 

Sometimes  I  thought  her  clothes  were  not  as  clean  as  they 
might  be — but  that  only  gave  me  the  joy  of  washing  them. 

Sometimes  I  was  sure  that  her  feeding-bottle  had  not  been 
rinsed  and  her  milk  was  not  quite  fresh — but  that  only  gave 
me  the  pleasure  of  scalding  the  one  and  boiling  the  other. 

More  than  once  it  flashed  upon  me  that  I  was  paying  Mrs. 
Oliver  to  do  all  this — but  then  what  a  deep  delight  it  was 
to  be  mothering  my  own  baby! 

Thus  weeks  and  months  passed — it  is  only  now  I  know  how 
many,  for  in  those  days  Time  itself  had  nothing  in  it  for  me 


I  AM  LOST  447 

except  my  child — and  every  new  day  brought  the  new  joy  of 
watching  my  baby's  development. 

Oh,  how  wonderful  it  all  was !  To  see  her  little  mind  and 
soul  coming  out  of  the  Unknown!  Out  of  the  silence  and 
darkness  of  the  womb  into  the  world  of  light  and  sound ! 

First  her  sense  of  sight,  with  her  never-ending  interest  in 
her  dear  little  toes!  Then  her  senses  of  touch  and  hearing, 
and  the  gift  of  speech,  beginning  with  a  sort  of  crow,  and 
ending  in  the  "ma-ma-ma"  which  the  first  time  I  heard  it 
went  prancing  through  and  through  me  and  was  more 
heavenly  to  my  ears  than  the  music  of  the  spheres! 

What  evenings  of  joy  I  had  with  her! 

The  best  of  them  (God  forgive  me!)  were  the  nights  when 
the  bricklayer  had  got  into  some  trouble  by  "knocking  people 
about"  at  the  "Rising  Sun"  and  his  wife  had  to  go  off  to 
rescue  him  from  the  police. 

Then,  baby  being  ' '  shortened, ' '  I  would  prop  her  up  in  her 
cot  while  I  sang  ' '  Sally ' '  to  her ;  or  if  that  did  not  serve,  and 
her  little  lip  continued  to  drop,  I  both  sang  and  danced, 
spreading  my  skirts  and  waltzing  to  the  tune  of  "Clemen- 
tina" while  the  kettle  hummed  over  the  fire  and  the  brick- 
layer's kitchen  buzzed  softly  like  a  hive  of  bees. 

Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  I  may  have  been  down  in  the  depths, 
yet  there  is  no  place  so  dark  that  it  may  not  be  brightened 
by  a  sunbeam,  and  my  sunbeam  was  my  child. 

And  then  Martin — baby  was  constantly  making  me  think 
of  him.  Devouring  her  with  my  eyes,  I  caught  resemblances 
every  day — in  her  eyes,  her  voice,  her  smile,  and,  above  all,  in 
that  gurgling  laugh  that  was  like  water  bubbling  out  of  a 
bottle. 

I  used  to  talk  to  her  about  him,  pouring  all  my  sentimental 
secrets  into  her  ears,  just  as  if  she  understood,  telling  her 
what  a  great  man  her  father  had  been  and  how  he  loved  both 
of  us — would  have  done  if  he  had  lived  longer. 

I  dare  say  it  was  very  foolish.  Yet  I  cannot  think  it  was 
all  foolishness.  Many  and  many  a  time  since  I  have  wondered 
if  the  holy  saints,  who  knew  what  had  really  happened  to 
Martin,  were  whispering  all  this  in  my  ear  as  a  means  of 
keeping  my  love  for  him  as  much  alive  as  if  he  had  been 
constantly  by  my  side. 

The  climax  came  when  Isabel  was  about  five  months  old, 
for  then  the  feeling  about  baby  and  Martin  reached  another 
and  higher  phase. 


44  S  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

I  hardly  dare  to  speak  of  it,  lest  it  should  seem  silly  \vhen 
it  was  really  so  sacred  and  so  exalted. 

The  idea  I  had  had  before  baby  was  born,  that  she  was 
being  sent  to  console  me  (to  be  a  link  between  my  lost  one 
and  me),  developed  into  the  startling  and  rapturous  thought 
that  the  very  soul  of  Martin  had  passed  into  my  child. 

"So  Martin  is  not  dead  at  all,"  I  thought,  "not  really 
dead,  because  he  lives  in  baby." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  this  thought  stirred  me ;  how  it 
filled  my  heart  with  thankfulness;  how  I  prayed  that  the 
little  body  in  which  the  soul  of  my  Martin  had  come  to  dwell 
might  grow  beautiful  and  strong  and  worthy  of  him  -.  how  I 
felt  charged  with  another  and  still  greater  responsibility  to 
guard  and  protect  her  with  my  life  itself  if  need  be. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  very  life  itself,"  I  thought. 

Perhaps  this  was  a  sort  of  delirium,  born  of  my  great  love, 
my  hard  work,  and  my  failing  strength.  I  did  not  know,  I 
did  not  care. 

All  that  mattered  to  me  then  was  one  thing  only — that 
whereas  hitherto  I  had  thought  Martin  was  so  far  gone  from 
me  that  not  Time  but  only  Eternity  would  bring  us  together, 
now  I  felt  that  he  was  coming  back  and  back  to  me — nearer 
and  nearer  and  nearer  every  day. 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

My  dear,  noble  little  woman  was  right  in  more  ways  than 
she  knew. 

At  that  very  time  I  was  in  literal  truth  hurrying  home  to 
her  as  fast  as  the  fastest  available  vessel  could  carry  me. 

As  soon  as  we  had  boarded  the  Scotia  at  the  Cape  and 
greeted  our  old  shipmates,  we  shouted  for  our  letters. 

There  were  some  for  all  of  us  and  heaps  for  me,  so  I  scuttled 
down  to  my  cabin,  where  I  sorted  the  envelopes  like  a  pack 
of  cards,  looking  for  the  small  delicate  hand  that  used  to 
write  my  letters  and  speeches. 

To  my  dismay  it  was  not  there,  and  realizing  that  fact  I 
bundled  the  letters  into  a  locker  and  never  looked  at  them 
again  until  we  were  two  days  out — when  I  found  they  were 
chiefly  congratulations  from  my  committee,  the  proprietor 
of  my  newspaper,  and  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  all 
welcome  enough  in  their  way,  but-  Dead  Sea  fruit  to  a  man 
with  an  empty,  heaving  heart. 


I  AM  LOST  449 

Going  up  on  deck  I  found  every  face  about  me  shining  like 
the  aurora,  for  the  men  had  had  good  news  all  round!  one 
having  come  into  a  fortune  and  another  into  the  fatherhood 
of  twins,  and  both  being  in  a  state  of  joy  and  excitement. 

But  all  the  good  fellows  were  like  boys.  Some  of  them 
(with  laughter  seasoned  by  a  few  tears)  read  me  funny  bits 
out  of  their  wives'  letters — bits  too  that  were  not  funny, 
about  having  "a  pretty  fit  of  hysterics"  at  reading  bad  news 
of  us  and  "wanting1  to  kiss  the  newsboy"  when  he  brought 
the  paper  contradicting  it. 

I  did  my  best  to  play  the  game  of  rejoicing,  pretending  I 
had  had  good  news  also,  and  everything  was  going  splendid. 
But  I  found  it  hard  enough  to  keep  it  going,  especially  while 
we  were  sailing  back  to  the  world,  as  we  called  it,  and  hearing 
from  the  crew  the  news  of  what  had  happened  while  we  had 
been  away. 

First,  there  was  the  reason  for  the  delay  in  the  arrival  of 
the  ship,  which  had  been  due  not  to  failure  of  the  wireless 
at  our  end,  but  to  a  breakdown  on  Macquarie  Island. 

And  then  there  was  the  account  of  the  report  of  the  loss  of 
the  Scotia  in  the  gale  going  out,  which  had  been  believed 
on  insufficient  evidence  (as  I  thought),  but  recorded  in  gener- 
ous words  of  regret  that  sent  the  blood  boiling  to  a  man 's  face 
and  made  him  wish  to  heaven  they  could  be  true. 

We  were  only  five  or  six  days  sailing  to  New  Zealand,  but 
the  strain  to  me  was  terrible,  for  the  thought  was  always 
uppermost: 

"Why  didn't  she  write  a  word  of  welcome  to  reach  me  on 
my  return  to  civilisation  f" 

When  I  was  not  talking  to  somebody  that  question  was 
constantly  haunting  me.  To  escape  from  it  I  joined  the  sports 
of  my  shipmates,  who  with  joyful  news  in  their  hearts  and 
fresh  food  in  their  stomachs  were  feeling  as  good  as  new 
in  spite  of  all  they  had  suffered. 

But  the  morning  we  smelt  land,  the  morning  the  cloud  banks 
above  the  eastern  horizon  came  out  hard  and  fast  and  sure 
(no  dreamland  this  time),  I  stood  at  the  ship's  bow,  saying 
nothing  to  anybody,  only  straining  my  eyes  for  the  yet  distant 
world  we  were  coming  back  to  out  of  that  desolate  white 
waste,  and  thinking: 

"Surely  111  have  news  from  her  before  nightfall." 

There  was  a  big  warm-hearted  crowd  on  the  pier  at  Port 
Lyttelton.  Treacle  said,  "Gawd,  I  didn't  know  there  was 

2F 


450  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

so  many  people  in  the  world,  Guv 'nor;"  and  0 'Sullivan, 
catching  sight  of  a  pretty  figure  under  a  sunshade,  tugged  at 
my  arm  and  cried  (in  the  voice  of  an  astronomer  who  has 
discovered  a  planet),  "Commanther!  Commanther!  A  girl!" 

Almost  before  we  had  been  brought  to,  a  company  of 
scientific  visitors  came  aboard;  but  I  was  more  concerned 
about  the  telegrams  that  had  come  at  the  same  moment,  so 
hurrying  down  to  my  cabin  I  tore  them  open  like  a  vulture 
riving  its  prey — always  looking  at  the  signatures  first  and 
never  touching  an  envelope  without  thinking: 

"Oh  God,  what  will  be  inside  of  it?" 

There  was  nothing  from  my  dear  one !  Invitations  to  dine, 
to  lecture,  to  write  books,  to  do  this  and  that  and  Heaven 
knows  what,  but  never  a  word  from  her  who  was  more  to  me 
than  all  the  world  besides. 

This  made  me  more  than  ever  sure  of  the  "voices"  that 
had  called  me  back  from  the  88th  latitude,  so  I  decided  in- 
stantly to  leave  our  ship  in  New  Zealand,  in  readiness  for  our 
next  effort,  and  getting  across  to  Sydney  to  take  the  first  fast 
steamer  home. 

The  good  people  at  Port  Lyttelton  were  loath  to  let  us  go. 
But  after  I  had  made  my  excuses,  ("crazy  to  get  back  to 
wives  and  sweethearts,  you  know")  they  sent  a  school  of  boys 
(stunning  little  chaps  in  Eton  suits)  to  sing  us  off  with 
"Forty  Years  On" — which  brought  more  of  my  mother  into 
my  eyes  than  I  knew  to  be  left  there. 

At  Sydney  we  had  the  same  experience — the  same  hearty 
crowds,  the  same  welcome,  the  same  invitations,  to  which  we 
made  the  same  replies,  and  then  got  away  by  a  fast  liner 
which  happened  to  be  ready  to  sail. 

On  the  way  "back  to  the  world"  I  had  slung  together  a 
sort  of  a  despatch  for  the  newspaper  which  had  promoted  our 
expedition  (a  lame,  limping  thing  for  want  of  my  darling's 
help  to  make  it  go),  saying  something  about  the  little  we  had 
been  able  to  do  but  mo;-e  about  what  we  meant,  please  God, 
to  do  some  day. 

"She'll  see  that,  anyway,  and  know  we're  coming  back," 
I  thought. 

But  to  make  doubly  sure  I  sent  two  personal  telegrams,  one 
to  my  dear  one  at  Castle  Raa,  and  the  other  to  my  old  people 
at  home,  asking  for  answers  to  Port  Said. 

Out  on  the  sea  again  I  was  tormented  by  the  old  dream  of 
the  crevassed  glacier ;  and  if  anybody  wonders  why  a  hulking 


I  AM  LOST  451 

chap  who  had  not  been  afraid  of  a  ninety-mile  blizzard  in 
the  region  of  the  Pole  allowed  himself  to  be  kept  awake  at 
night  by  a  buzzing  in  the  brain,  all  I  can  say  is  that  it  was  so, 
and  I  know  nothing  more  about  it. 

Perhaps  my  recent  experience  with  the  " wireless"  per- 
suaded me  that  if  two  sticks  stuck  in  the  earth  could  be  made 
to  communicate  with  each  other  over  hundreds  of  miles,  two 
hearts  that  loved  each  other  knew  no  limitations  of  time  or 
space. 

In  any  case  I  was  now  so  sure  that  my  dear  one  had  called 
me  home  from  the  Antarctic  that  by  the  time  we  reached 
Port  Said,  and  telegrams  were  pouring  in  on  me,  I  had  worked 
myself  up  to  such  a  fear  that  I  dared  not  open  them. 

From  sheer  dread  of  the  joy  or  sorrow  that  might  be  en- 
closed in  the  yellow  covers,  I  got  O  'Sullivan  down  in  my  cabin 
to  read  my  telegrams,  while  I  scanned  his  face  and  nearly 
choked  with  my  own  tobacco  smoke. 

There  was  nothing  from  my  dear  one!  Nothing  from  my 
people  at  home  either! 

0 'Sullivan  got  it  into  his  head  that  I  was  worrying  about 
my  parents,  and  tried  to  comfort  me  by  saying  that  old  folks 
never  dreamt  of  telegraphing,  but  by  the  holy  immaculate 
Mother  he  'd  go  bail  there  would  be  a  letter  for  me  before  long. 

There  was. 

We  stayed  two  eternal  days  at  Port  Said  while  the  vessel 
was  taking  coal  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  and  almost  at  the 
moment  of  sailing  a  letter  arrived  from  Elian,  which,  falling 
into  O 'Sullivan 's  hands  first,  sent  him  flying  through  the 
steamer  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 

' '  Commanther !     Commanther ! ' ' 

The  passengers  gave  room  for  him,  and  told  me  afterwards 
of  his  beaming  face.  And  when  he  burst  into  my  cabin  I 
too  felt  sure  he  had  brought  me  good  news,  which  he  had, 
though  it  was  not  all  that  I  wanted. 

' '  The  way  I  was  sure  there  would  be  a  letter  for  you  soon, 
and  by  the  holy  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Thomas,  here  it  is,"  he 
cried. 

The  letter  was  from  my  father,  and  I  had  to  brace  myself 
before  I  could  read  it. 

It  was  full  of  fatherly  love,  motherly  love,  too,  and  the 
extravagant  pride  my  dear  good  old  people  had  of  me  ("every- 
body's talking  of  you,  my  boy,  and  there's  nothing  else  in 


452  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

the  newspapers")  ;  but  not  a  word  about  my  Mary — or  only 
one,  and  that  seemed  worse  than  none  at  all. 

"You  must  have  heard  of  the  trouble  at  Castle  Raa.  Very- 
sad,  but  this  happy  hour  is  not  the  time  to  say  anything 
about  it." 

Nothing  more!  Only  reams  and  reams  of  sweet  parental 
chatter  which  (God  forgive  me!)  I  would  have  gladly  given 
over  and  over  again  for  one  plain  sentence  about  my  darling. 

Being  now  more  than  ever  sure  that  some  kind  of  catas- 
trophe had  overtaken  my  poor  little  woman,  I  telegraphed 
to  her  again,  this  time  (without  knowing  what  mischief  I 
was  making)  at  the  house  of  Daniel  O'Neill — telling  myself 
that,  though  the  man  was  a  brute  who  had  sacrificed  his 
daughter  to  his  lust  of  rank  and  power  and  all  the  rest  of 
his  rotten  aspirations,  he  was  her  father,  and,  if  her  reprobate 
of  a  husband  had  turned  her  out,  he  must  surely  have  taken 
her  in. 

"Cable  reply  to  Malta.  Altogether  too  bad  not  hearing 
from  you,"  I  said. 

A  blind,  hasty,  cruel  telegram,  but  thank  God  she  never 
received  it !  M.  C. 

[END  OF  MAKTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

NINETY-EIGHTH  CHAPTER 

DAY  by  day  it  became  more  and  more  difficult  for  me  to 
throw  dust  in  my  own  eyes  about  the  Olivers. 

One  evening  on  reaching  their  house  a  little  after  six,  as 
usual,  I  found  the  front  door  open,  the  kitchen  empty  save  for 
baby,  who,  sitting  up  in  her  cot,  was  holding  quiet  converse 
with  her  toes,  and  the  two  Olivers  talking  loudly  (probably 
by  pre-arrangement)  in  the  room  upstairs. 

The  talk  was  about  baby,  which  was  "a  noosance, "  inter- 
fering with  a  man 's  sleep  by  night  and  driving  him  out  of  his 
home  by  day.  And  how  much  did  they  get  for  it?  Nothing, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking.  What  did  the  woman  (meaning  me) 
think  the  "bleedin'  place"  was — "a  philanthropic  institoo- 
shun"  or  a  "charity  orginisation  gime"? 

After  this  I  heard  the  bricklayer  thunder  downstairs  in  his 
heavy  boots  and  go  out  of  the  house  without  coming  into 
the  kitchen,  leaving  his  wife  (moral  coward  that  he  was)  to 
settle  his  account  with  me. 


I  AM  LOST  453 

Then  Mrs.  Oliver  came  down,  with  many  sighs,  expressed 
surprise  at  seeing  me  and  fear  that  I  might  have  overheard 
what  had  been  said  in  the  room  above. 

" Sorry  to  say  I've  been  having  a  few  words  with  Ted, 
ma'am,  and  tell  you  the  truth  it  was  about  you." 

Ted  had  always  been  against  her  nursing,  and  she  must 
admit  it  wasn't  wise  of  a  woman  to  let  her  man  go  to  the 
public-house  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  crying  child;  but 
though  she  was  a-running  herself  off  her  feet  to  attend  to  the 
pore  dear,  and  milk  was  up  a  penny,  she  had  growd  that  fond 
of  my  baby  since  she  lost  her  own  that  she  couldn't  abear  to 
part  with  the  jewel,  and  perhaps  if  I  could  pay  a  little  more — 
Ted  said  seven,  but  she  said  six,  and  a  shilling  a  week  wouldn  't 
hurt  me — she  could  over-persuade  him  to  let  the  dear  precious 
stay. 

I  was  trembling  with  indignation  while  I  listened  to  the 
woman's  whining  (knowing  well  I  was  being  imposed  upon), 
but  I  was  helpless  and  so  I  agreed. 

My  complacency  had  a  bad  effect  on  the  Olivers,  who  con- 
tinued to  make  fresh  extortions,  until  their  demands  almost 
drove  me  to  despair. 

I  thought  a  climax  had  been  reached  when  one  night  a 
neighbour  came  to  the  door  and,  calling  Mrs.  Oliver  into  ttie 
lobby,  communicated  some  news  in  a  whisper  which  brought 
her  back  with  a  frightened  face  for  her  cloak  and  hat,  saying 
"something  was  a  matter  with  Ted"  and  she  must  "run 
away  quick  to  him." 

When  she  returned  an  hour  or  two  later  she  was  crying, 
and  with  sobs  between  her  words  she  told  me  that  Ted  (having 
taken  a  drop  too  much)  had  "knocked  somebody  about"  at 
the  "Sun."  As  a  consequence  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  police,  and  would  be  brought  before  the  magistrate  the 
following  morning,  when,  being  unable  to  pay  the  fine,  he 
would  have  to  "do  time" — just  as  a  strike  was  a-coming  on, 
too,  and  he  was  expecting  good  pay  from  the  Strike  Committee. 

"And  what  is  to  happen  to  me  and  the  baby  while  my 
'usband  is  in  prison?"  she  said. 

I  knew  it  was  an  act  of  weakness,  but,  thinking  of  my  child 
and  the  danger  of  its  being  homeless,  I  asked  what  the  amount 
of  the  fine  would  probably  be,  and  being  told  ten-and-six, 
I  gave  the  money,  though  it  was  nearly  all  I  had  in  the  world. 

I  paid  for  my  weakness,  though,  and  have  reason  to  remem- 
ber it. 


454  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

The  extortions  of  the  Olivers  had  brought  me  to  so  narrow 
a  margin  between  my  earnings  and  expenses  that  I  lay  awake 
nearly  all  that  night  thinking  what  I  could  do  to  increase  the 
one  or  reduce  the  other.  The  only  thing  I  found  possible  was 
to  change  to  cheaper  quarters.  So  next  morning,  with  a 
rather  heavy  heart,  I  asked  Mrs.  Abramovitch  if  the  room 
at  the  back  of  the  house  was  still  empty,  and  hearing  that  it 
was  I  moved  into  it  the  same  day. 

That  was  a  small  and  not  a  very  wise  economy. 

My  new  room  was  cheerless  as  well  as  dark,  with  no  sights 
but  the  clothes  that  were  drying  from  the  pulley-lines  and 
no  sounds  but  the  whoops  of  the  boys  of  the  neighbourhood 
playing  at  "Red  Indians"  on  the  top  of  the  yard  walls. 

But  it  was  about  the  same  as  the  other  in  size  and  furniture, 
and  after  I  had  decorated  it  with  my  few  treasures — the 
Reverend  Mother's  rosary,  which  I  hung  on  the  head  of  the 
bed,  and  my  darling  mother's  miniature,  which  I  pinned  up 
over  the  fire — I  thought  it  looked  bright  and  homelike. 

All  this  time,  too,  I  was  between  the  nether  and  the  upper 
mill-stone. 

My  employer,  the  Jew  (though  he  must  have  seen  that  I 
was  sweating  myself  much  more  than  the  law  would  have 
allowed  him  to  sweat  me),  could  not  forgive  himself  when 
he  found  that  I  was  earning  more  by  "piece"  than  he  would 
have  had  to  pay  me  by  the  day,  or  resist  the  temptation  to 
square  accounts  with  me  at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity. 

Unfortunately,  his  opportunity  came  only  too  quickly,  and 
it  led  (however  indirectly)  to  the  most  startling  fact  that  has 
ever,  perhaps,  entered  into  a  woman's  life. 

I  had  not  been  more  than  three  months  at  the  Jew's  house 
when  the  Jewish  festivals  came  round — New  Year's  Day,  the 
Day  of  Atonement,  and  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles — which, 
falling  near  together  and  occupying  many  days,  disturbed  his 
own  habits  of  work  entirely. 

One  of  the  tasks  he  reserved  for  himself  was  that  of  taking 
the  best  paid  of  his  "best-bespoke"  back  to  the  large  shops 
in  the  West  End,  and  waiting  for  the  return  orders.  But 
finding  that  the  festivals  interfered  with  these  journeys,  he 
decided  that  they  should  be  made  by  me,  who  was  supposed 
to  know  the  West  End  (having  lived  in  it)  and  to  present  a 
respectable  appearance. 

I  was  reluctant  to  undertake  the  new  duty,  for  though  the 
Jew  was  to  pay  me  a  few  shillings  a  week  for  it,  I  saw  I  could 


I  AM  LOST  455 

earn  more  in  the  time  with  my  needle.  But  when  he  laid  his 
long,  hairy  forefinger  on  the  side  of  his  nose  and  said  with 
a  significant  smile : 

"You  vill  be  gradeful,  and  convenience  your  employer, 
mine  child,"  I  agreed. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  not  only  during  the  Jewish  fes- 
tivals, but  for  months  after  they  were  over,  I  carried  a  rather 
large  black  bag  by  tram  or  rail  to  the  district  that  lies  at  the 
back  of  Piccadilly  and  along  Oxford  Street  as  far  west  as 
the  Marble  Arch. 

I  had  to  go  whenever  called  upon  and  to  wait  as  long  as 
wanted,  so  that  in  the  height  of  the  tailoring  season  I  was 
out  in  the  West  End  at  all  irregular  hours  of  night,  and  even 
returned  to  my  lodgings  on  one  or  two  occasions  in  the  raw 
sunshine  of  the  early  mornings. 

The  one  terror  of  my  West  End  journeys  was  that  I  might 
meet  Sister  Mildred.  I  never  did.  In  the  multitude  of 
faces  which  passed  through  the  streets,  flashing  and  disap- 
pearing like  waves  under  the  moon  at  sea,  I  never  once  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  face  I  knew. 

But  what  sights  I  saw  for  all  that !  What  piercing,  piteous 
proofs  that  between  the  rich  and  the  poor  there  is  a  great 
gulf  fixed! 

The  splendid  carriages  driving  in  and  out  of  the  Park;  the 
sumptuously  dressed  ladies  strolling  through  Bond  Street;  the 
fashionable  church  paraders;  the  white  plumes  and  diamond 
stars  which  sometimes  gleamed  behind  the  glow  of  the  electric 
broughams  gliding  down  the  Mall. 

"I  used  to  be  a-toffed  up  like  that  onct,"  I  heard  an  old 
woman  who  was  selling  matches  say  as  a  lady  in  an  ermine 
coat  stepped  out  of  a  theatre  into  an  automobile  and  was 
wrapped  round  in  a  tiger-skin  rug. 

Sometimes  it  happened  that,  returning  to  the  East  End 
after  the  motor  'buses  had  ceased  to  ply,  I  had  to  slip  through 
the  silent  Leicester  Square  and  the  empty  Strand  to  the 
Underground  Railway  on  the  Embankment. 

Then  I  would  see  the  wretched  men  and  women  who  were 
huddled  together  in  the  darkness  on  the  steps  to  the  river 
(whose  ever-flowing  waters  must  have  witnessed  so  many 
generations  of  human  wreckage),  and,  glancing  up  at  the  big 
hotels  and  palatial  mansions  full  of  ladies  newly  returned 
from  theatres  and  restaurants  in  their  satin  slippers  and 
silk  stockings,  I  would  wonder  how  they  could  lie  in  their 


456  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

white  beds  at  night  in  rooms  whose  windows  looked  down  on 
such  scenes. 

But  the  sight  that  stirred  me  most  (though  it  did  not 
awaken  my  charity,  which  shows  what  a  lean-souled  thing  I 
was  myself)  was  that  of  the  "public  women,"  the  street- 
walkers, as  I  used  to  call  them,  whom  I  saw  in  Piccadilly  with 
their  fine  clothes  and  painted  faces,  sauntering  in  front  of 
the  clubs  or  tripping  along  with  a  light  step  and  trying  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  men. 

I  found  no  pathos  in  the  position  of  such  women.  On  the 
contrary,  I  had  an  unspeakable  horror  and  hatred  and  loath- 
ing of  them,  feeling  that  no  temptation,  no  poverty,  no  pres- 
sure that  could  ever  be  brought  to  bear  upon  a  woman  in  life 
or  in  death  excused  her  for  committing  so  great  a  wrong  on 
the  sanctity  of  her  sex  as  to  give  up  her  womanhood  at  any 
call  but  that  of  love. 

"Nothing  could  make  me  do  it,"  I  used  to  think,  "nothing 
in  this  world." 

But  0  God!  how  little  I  knew  then  what  is  in  a  woman's 
heart  to  do  when  she  has  a  child  to  live  for,  and  is  helpless 
and  alone! 

I  cannot  expect  anybody  to  forgive  me  for  what  /  did  (or 
attempted  to  do),  and  now  that  the  time  has  come  to  tell  of 
it  my  hand  trembles,  and  body  and  soul  seem  to  be  quivering 
like  a  flame. 

May  God  (who  has  brought  everything  to  such  a  glorious 
end)  have  mercy  on  me  and  forgive  me,  and  help  me  to  be 
true! 

NINETY-NINTH  CHAPTER 

THE  worst  consequence  of  my  West  End  journeys  was  that 
my  nightly  visits  to  Ilford  were  fewer  than  before,  and  that 
the  constant  narrowing  of  the  margin  between  my  income 
and  my  expenses  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  go  there  during 
the  day. 

As  a  result  my  baby  received  less  and  less  attention,  and 
I  could  not  be  blind  to  the  fact  that  she  was  growing  paler 
and  thinner. 

At  length  she  developed  a  cough  which  troubled  me  a  great 
deal.  Mrs.  Oliver  made  light  of  it,  saying  a  few  pennyworths 
of  paregoric  would  drive  it  away,  so  I  hurried  off  to  a  chemist, 
who  recommended  a  soothing  syrup  of  his  own,  saying  it  was 
safer  and  more  effectual  for  a  child. 


I  AM  LOST  457 

The  syrup  seemed  to  stop  the  cough  but  to  disturb  the 
digestion,  for  I  saw  the  stain  of  curdled  milk  on  baby's  bib 
and  was  conscious  of  her  increasing  weakness. 

This  alarmed  me  very  much,  and  little  as  I  knew  of  chil- 
dren's ailments,  I  became  convinced  that  she  stood  in  need  of 
more  fresh  air,  so  I  entreated  Mrs.  Oliver  to  take  her  for  a 
walk  every  day. 

I  doubt  if  she  ever  did  so,  for  as  often  as  I  would  say: 

"Has  baby  been  out  to-day,  nurse?"  Mrs.  Oliver  would 
make  some  lame  excuse  and  pass  quickly  to  another  subject. 

At  last,  being  unable  to  bear  the  strain  any  longer,  I  burst 
out  on  the  woman  with  bitter  reproaches,  and  then  she  broke 
down  into  tears  and  explained  everything.  She  was  behind 
with  her  rent,  the  landlord  was  threatening,  and  she  dared 
not  leave  the  house  for  a  moment  lest  he  should  lock  her 
out  altogether. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,  it's  all  along  of  Ted,  ma'am. 
He's  on  strike  wages  but  he  spends  it  at  the  'Sun,'  He 
has  never  been  the  man  to  me — never  once  since  I  married 
him.  I  could  work  and  keep  the  house  comfortable  without 
him,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me  a-be,  because  he  knows  I  love 
him  dear.  Yes,  I  do,  I  love  him  dear,"  she  continued,  break- 
ing into  hysterical  sobs,  "and  if  he  came  home  and  killed  me 
I  could  kiss  him  with  my  last  breath. ' ' 

This  touched  me  more  than  I  can  say.  A  sense  of  some- 
thing tragic  in  the  position  of  the  poor  woman,  who  knew  the 
character  of  the  man  she  loved  as  well  as  the  weakness  which 
compelled  her  to  love  him,  made  me  sympathise  with  her  for 
the  first  time,  and  think  (with  a  shuddering  memory  of  my 
own  marriage)  how  many  millions  of  women  there  must  be 
in  the  world  who  were  in  a  worse  position  than  myself. 

On  returning  to  my  room  that  night  I  began  to  look  about 
to  see  if  I  had  anything  I  could  sell  in  order  to  help  Mrs. 
Oliver,  and  so  put  an  end  to  the  condition  that  kept  my  baby 
a  prisoner  in  her  house. 

I  had  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing.  Except  the  Reverend 
Mother's  rosary  (worth  no  more  than  three  or  four  shillings) 
I  had  only  my  mother's  miniature,  which  was  framed  in  gold 
and  set  in  pearls,  but  that  was  the  most  precious  of  all  my 
earthly  possessions  except  my  child. 

Again  and  again  when  I  looked  at  it  in  my  darkest  hours  ' 
I  had  found  new  strength  and  courage.     It  had  been  like  a 
shrine  to  me — what  the  image  of  the  Virgin  was  in  happier 


458  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

days — and  thinking  of  all  that  my  darling  mother  had  done 
and  suffered  and  sacrificed  for  my  sake  when  I  was  myself  a 
child,  I  felt  that  I  could  never  part  with  her  picture  under 
the  pressure  of  any  necessity  whatever. 

"Never,"  I  thought,   "never  under  any   circumstances." 

It  must  have  been  about  a  week  after  this  that  I  went  to 
Ilford  on  one  of  those  chill,  clammy  nights  which  seem  pecu- 
liar to  the  East  End  of  London,  where  the  atmosphere,  com- 
pounded of  smoke  and  fog  and  thin  drizzling  rain,  penetrates 
to  the  bone  and  hangs  on  one's  shoulders  like  a  shroud. 

Thinking  of  this,  as  I  thought  of  everything,  in  relation  to 
baby,  I  bought,  as  I  was  passing  a  hosier's  shop,  a  pair  of 
nice  warm  stockings  and  a  little  woollen  jacket. 

When  I  reached  the  Olivers'  I  found,  to  my  surprise,  two 
strange  men  stretched  out  at  large  in  the  kitchen,  one  on 
the  sofa  and  the  other  in  the  rocking-chair,  both  smoking 
strong  tobacco  and  baby  coughing  constantly. 

Before  I  realised  what  had  happened  Mrs.  Oliver  called 
me  into  the  scullery,  and,  after  closing  the  door  on  us,  she 
explained  the  position,  in  whispers  broken  by  sobs. 

It  was  the  rent.  These  were  the"  bailiff's  men  put  into 
possession  by  the  landlord,  and  unless  she  could  find  two 
pounds  ten  by  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  she  and  her 
husband  would  be  sold  up  and  turned  into  the  street. 

"The  home  as  I've  been  scraping  and  pinching  to  keep 
together!"  she  cried.  "For  the  sake  of  two  pound  ten!  .  .  . 
You  couldn't  lend  us  that  much,  could  you?" 

I  told  her  I  could  not,  but  she  renewed  her  entreaties,  ask- 
ing me  to  think  if  I  had  not  something  I  could  pawn  for 
them,  and  saying  that  Ted  and  she  would  consider  it  "a 
sacred  dooty"  to  repay. 

Again  I  told  her  I  had  nothing — I  was  trying  not  to  think 
of  the  miniature — but  just  at  that  moment  she  caught  sight 
of  the  child's  jacket  which  I  was  still  holding  in  my  hand,  and 
she  fell  on  me  with  bitter  reproaches. 

"You've  money  enough  to  spend  on  baby,  though.  It's 
crool.  Her  living  in  lukshry  and  getting  new  milk  night 
and  day,  and  fine  clothes  being  bought  for  her  constant,  and 
my  pore  Ted  without  a  roof  to  cover  him  in  weather  same 
as  this.  It  breaks  my  heart.  It  do  indeed.  Take  your  child 
away,  ma'am.  Take  her  to-night,  afore  we're  turned  out  of 
house  and  home  to-morrow  morning." 

Before  the  hysterical  cries  with  which  Mrs.  Oliver  said  this 


I  AM  LOST  459 

had  come  to  an  end  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  my  room  at 
the  Jew's.  But  it  was  baby  I  was  thinking  of  in  relation  to 
that  cold,  clammy  night — that  it  would  be  impossible  to  take 
her  out  in  it  (even  if  I  had  somewhere  to  take  her  to,  which 
I  had  not)  without  risk  to  her  health  and  perhaps  her  life. 

With  trembling  fingers  and  an  awful  pain  at  my  heart  I 
took  my  mother's  miniature  from  the  wall  and  wrapped  it  up 
in  tissue  paper. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  I  was  back  in  the  damp  streets, 
walking  fast  and  eagerly,  cutting  over  the  lines  of  the  electric 
trams  without  looking  for  the  crossings. 

I  knew  where  I  was  going  to — I  was  going  to  a  pawn- 
broker 's  in  the  Mile  End  Waste  \vhich  I  had  seen  on  my  West 
End  journeys.  When  I  got  there  I  stole  in  at  a  side  door,  half- 
closing  my  eyes  as  I  did  so,  by  that  strange  impulse  which 
causes  us  to  see  nothing  when  we  do  not  wish  to  be  seen. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene  inside.  I  think  it  must  have 
left  a  scar  on  my  brain,  for  I  see  it  now  in  every  detail — the 
little  dark  compartment ;  the  high  counter ;  the  shelves  at  the 
back  full  of  parcels,  like  those  of  a  left-luggage  room  at  a 
railway  station;  the  heavy,  baggy,  big-faced  man  in  shirt- 
sleeves with  a  long  cigar  held  between  his  teeth  at  the  corner 
of  his  frothy  mouth;  and  then  my  own  hurried  breathing; 
my  thin  fingers  opening  the  tissue  paper  and  holding  out  the 
miniature;  the  man's  coarse  hands  fumbling  it;  his  casual 
air  as  he  looked  at  it  and  cheapened,  it,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
common  thing  scarcely  worthy  of  consideration. 

"  What's  this  'ere  old-fashion 'd  thing?  Portrait  of  your 
great-grandmother?  Hum!  Not  'arf  bad-looking  fice, 
neither. ' ' 

I  think  my  eyes  must  have  been  blazing  like  hot  coals.  I 
am  sure  I  bit  my  lips  (I  felt  them  damp  and  knew  they  were 
bleeding)  to  prevent  myself  from  flinging  out  at  the  man  in 
spite  of  my  necessity.  But  I  did  my  best  to  control  my 
trembling  mouth,  and  when  he  asked  me  how  much  I  wanted 
on  the  miniature  I  answered,  with  a  gulp  in  my  throat: 

".Two  pounds  ten,  if  you  please,  sir." 

' '  Couldn  't  do  it, ' '  said  the  pawnbroker. 

I  stood  speechless  for  a  moment,  not  knowing  what  to  say 
next,  and  then  the  pawnbroker,  with  apparent  indifference,  said : 

"I'll  give  you  two  ten  for  it  out  and  out." 

' '  You  mean  I  am.  to  sell  ..." 

"Yus,  take  it  or  leave  it,  my  dear." 


460  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

It  is  no  use  saying  what  I  suffered  at  that  moment.  I 
think  I  became  ten  years  older  during  the  few  minutes  I 
stood  at  that  counter. 

But  they  came  to  an  end  somehow,  and  the  next  thing 
I  knew  was  that  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  Ilford;  that  the 
damp  air  had  deepened  into  rain ;  that  miserable  and  perhaps 
homeless  beings,  ill-clad  and  ill-fed,  were  creeping  along  in 
the  searching  cold  with  that  shuffling  sound  which  bad  boots 
make  on  a  wet  pavement;  and  that  I  was  telling  myself  with 
a  fluttering  heart  that  the  sheltering  wings  of  my  beautiful 
mother  in  heaven  had  come  to  cover  my  child. 

On  reaching  the  Olivers',  hot  and  breathless,  I  put  three 
gold  coins,  two  sovereigns  and  a  half-sovereign,  on  to  the 
table  to  pay  off  the  broker's  men. 

They  had  been  settling  themselves  for  the  night,  and  looked 
surprised  and  I  thought  chagrined,  but  took  up  the  money 
and  went  away. 

As  they  were  going  off  one  of  them  called  me  to  the  door, 
and  in  the  little  space  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  said,  tipping 
his  fingers  towards  the  cot: 

"If  that's  your  kiddie,  miss,  I  recommend  you  to  get  it 
out  o'  this  'ere  place  quick — see?" 

I  stayed  an  hour  or  two  longer  because  I  was  troubled 
about  baby's  cough;  and  before  I  left,  being  still  uneasy,  I 
did  what  I  had  never  done  before — wrote  my  address  at  the 
Jew's  house,  so  that  I  could  be  sent  for  if  I  was  ever  wanted. 

ONE  HUNDREDTH  CHAPTER 

WHEN  I  awoke  next  morning  the  last  word  of  the  broker's 
man  seemed  to  be  ringing  in  my  ears. 

I  knew  it  was  true;  I  knew  I  ought  to  remove  baby  from 
the  house  of  the  Olivers  without  another  day's  delay,  but  I 
was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  her. 

To  bring  her  to  my  own  room  at  the  Jew's  was  obviously 
impossible,  and  to  advertise  for  a  nurse  for  my  child  was  to 
run  the  risk  of  falling  into  the  toils  of  somebody  who  might 
do  worse  than  neglect  her. 

In  my  great  perplexity  I  recalled  the  waitress  at  the  res- 
taurant whose  child  had  been  moved  to  a  Home  in  the 
country,  and  for  some  moments  I  thought  how  much  better 
it  would  be  that  baby  should  be  "bonny  and  well"  instead 


I  AM  LOST  461 

of  pale  and  thin  as  she  was  now.  But  when  I  reflected  that 
if  I  took  her  to  a  public  institution  I  should  see  her  only  once 
a  month,  I  told  myself  that  I  could  not  and  would  not  do  so. 

"I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  first,"  I  thought. 

Yet  life  makes  a  fearful  tug  at  a  woman  when  it  has  once 
got  hold  of  her,  and,  strangely  enough,  it  was  in  the  Jew's 
house  that  I  first  came  to  see  that  for  the  child's  own  sake  I 
must  part  with  her. 

Somewhere  about  the  time  of  my  moving  into  the  back 
room  my  employer  made  a  kind  of  bower  of  branches  and 
evergreens  over  the  lead-flat  roof  of  an  outhouse  in  his 
back-yard — a  Succah,  as  Miriam  called  it,  built  in  honour 
of  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles,  as  a  symbol  of  the  time  when  the 
Israelites  in  the  Wilderness  dwelt  in  booths. 

In  this  Succah  the  Jew's  family  ate  all  their  meals  during 
the  seven  or  eight  days  of  the  Jewish  feast,  and  one  morning, 
as  I  sat  at  work  by  my  open  window,  I  heard  Miriam  after 
breakfast  reading  something  from  the  Books  of  Moses. 

It  was  the  beautiful  story  of  Jacob  parting  with  Benjamin 
in  the  days  of  the  famine,  when  there  was  corn  in  Egypt  only — 
how  the  poor  old  father  in  his  great  love  could  not  bring 
himself  to  give  up  his  beloved  son,  although  death  threatened 
him;  how  Judah  pleaded  with  Jacob  to  send  the  boy  with 
him  into  the  far  country  lest  they  should  all  die,  "both  we 
and  thou  and  also  our  little  ones;"  and  how  at  last  Jacob 
said,  "  If  it  must  be  so,  do  this, ' '  but  "  if  I  be  bereaved  of  my 
children,  I  am  bereaved." 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  how  deeply  this  story  moved 
me  while  I  listened  from  my  room  above.  And  now  that  I 
thought  of  it  again,  I  saw  that  I  was  only  sacrificing  my  child 
to  my  selfish  love  of  her,  and  therefore  the  duty  of  a  true 
mother  was  to  put  her  into  a  Home. 

It  would  not  be  for  long.  The  work  I  was  doing  was  not 
the  only  kind  I  was  capable  of.  After  I  had  liberated  myself 
from  the  daily  extortions  of  the  Olivers  I  should  be  free  to 
look  about  for  more  congenial  and  profitable  employment; 
and  then  by  and  by  baby  and  I  might  live  together  in  that 
sweet  cottage  in  the  country  (I  always  pictured  it  as  a  kind  of 
Sunny  Lodge,  with  roses  looking  in  at  the  window  of  "Mary 
O'Neill's  little  room")  which  still  shone  through  my  dreams. 

I  spent  some  sleepless  nights  in  reconciling  myself  to  all 
this,  and  perhaps  wept  a  little,  too,  at  the  thought  that  after 


462  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

years  of  separation  I  might  be  a  stranger  to  my  own  darling. 
But  at  length  I  put  my  faith  in  "the  call  of  the  blood" 
to  tell  her  she  was  mine,  and  then  nothing  remained  except  to 
select  the  institution  to  which  my  only  love  and  treasure 
was  to  be  assigned. 

Accident  helped  me  in  this  as  in  other  things.  One  day 
on  my  westward  journey  a  woman  who  sat  beside  me  in  the 
tram,  and  was  constantly  wiping  her  eyes  (though  I  could  see 
a  sort  of  sunshine  through  her  tears),  could  not  help  telling 
me,  out  of  the  overflowing  of  her  poor  heart,  what  had  just 
been  happening  to  her. 

She  was  a  widow,  and  had  been  leaving  her  little  girl, 
three  years  old,  at  an  orphanage,  and  though  it  had  been 
hard  to  part  with  her,  and  the  little  darling  had  looked  so 
pitiful  when  she  came  away,  it  would  be  the  best  for  both  of 
them  in  the  long  run. 

I  asked  which  orphanage  it  was,  and  she  mentioned  the 
name  of  it,  telling  me  something  about  the  founder — a  good 
doctor  who  had  been  a  father  to  the  fatherless  of  thousands 
of  poor  women  like  herself. 

That  brought  me  to  a  quick  decision,  and  the  very,  next 
morning,  putting  on  my  hat  and  coat,  I  set  off  for  the  Home, 
which  I  knew  where  to  find,  having  walked  round  it  on  my 
way  back  from  the  West  End  and  heard  the  merry  voices  of 
happy  children  who  were  playing  behind  a  high  wall. 

I  hardly  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  when  I  think  of 
the  mood  in  which  I  entered  the  orphanage.  In  spite  of  all 
that  life  had  done  to  me,  I  really  and  truly  felt  as  if  I  were 
about  to  confer  an  immense  favour  upon  the  doctor  by 
allowing  him  to  take  care  of  my  little  woman. 

Oh,  how  well  I  remember  that  little  point  of  time ! 

My  first  disappointment  was  to  learn  that  the  good  doctor 
was  dead,  and  when  I  was  shown  into  the  office  of  his  suc- 
cessor (everything  bore  such  a  businesslike  air)  I  found  an 
elderly  man  with  a  long  "three-decker"  neck  and  a  glacial 
smile,  who,  pushing  his  spectacles  up  on  to  his  forehead,  said 
in  a  freezing  voice : 

"Well,  ma'am,  what  is  your  pleasure?" 

After  a  moment  of  giddiness  I  began  to  tell  him  my  story — 
how  I  had  a  child  and  her  nurse  was  not  taking  proper  care 
of  her;  how  I  was  in  uncongenial  employment  myself,  but 
hoped  soon  to  get  better:  how  I  loved  my  little  one  and 


I  AM  LOST  463 

expected  to  be  able  to  provide  for  her  presently;  and  how, 
therefore,  if  he  would  receive  her  for  a  while,  only  a  little 
while,  on  the  understanding,  the  clear  and  definite  under- 
standing, that  I  could  take  her  away  as  soon  as  I  wished 
to  ... 

Oh  dear!    Oh  dear! 

I  do  not  know  what  there  was  in  my  appearance  or  speech 
which  betrayed  me,  but  I  had  got  no  further  than  this  when 
the  old  gentleman  said  sharply: 

"Can  you  provide  a  copy  of  the  register  of  your  child's 
birth  to  show  that  it  is  legitimate  ? " 

What  answer  I  made  I  cannot  recollect,  except  that  I  told 
the  truth  in  a  voice  with  a  tremor  in  it,  for  a  memory  of  the 
registry  office  was  rolling  back  on  me  and  I  could  feel  my 
blushes  flushing  into  my  face. 

The  result  was  instantaneous.  The  old  gentleman  touched 
a  bell,  drew  his  spectacles  down  on  to  his  nose,  and  said  in 
his  icy  tones: 

"Don't  take  illegitimate  children  if  we  can  help  it." 

It  was  several  days  before  I  recovered  from  the  deep  hu- 
miliation of  this  experience.  Then  (the  exactions  of  the  Olivers 
quickening  my  memory  and  at  the  same  time  deadening  my 
pride)  I  remembered  something  which  I  had  heard  the  old 
actress  say  during  my  time  at  the  boarding-house  about  a 
hospital  in  Bloomsbury  for  unfortunate  children — how  the 
good  man  who  founded  it  had  been  so  firm  in  his  determina- 
tion that  no  poor  mother  in  her  sorrow  should  be  put  to 
further  shame  about  her  innocent  child  that  he  had  hung 
out  a  basket  at  the  gate  at  night  in  which  she  could  lay  her 
little  one,  if  she  liked,  and  then  ring  a  bell  and  hide  herself 
away. 

It  wasn't  easy  to  reconcile  oneself  to  such  philanthropy, 
but  after  a  sleepless  night,  and  with  rather  a  sickening  pang 
of  mingled  hope  and  fear,  I  set  off  for  this  hospital. 

It  was  a  fine  Sunday  morning.  The  working-men  in  the 
East  End  were  sitting  at  their  doors  smoking  their  pipes 
and  reading  their  Sunday  papers;  but  when  I  reached  the 
"West  all  the  church  bells  were  ringing,  and  people  wearing 
black  clothes  and  shiny  black  gloves  were  walking  with 
measured  steps  through  the  wide  courtyard  that  led  to  the 
chapel. 

I  will  not  say  that  I  did  not  feel  some  qualms  at  entering 


464  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

a  Protestant  church,  yet  as  soon  as  I  had  taken  my  seat  and 
looked  up  at  the  gallery  of  the  organ,  where  the  children 
sat  tier  on  tier,  so  quaint  and  sweet — the  boys  like  robins 
in  their  bright  red  waistcoats,  and  the  girls  like  rabbits  in 
their  mob-caps  with  fluted  frills — and  the  service  began,  and 
the  fresh  young  voices  rose  in  hymns  of  praise  to  the  good 
Father  of  us  all,  I  thought  of  nothing  except  the  joy  of  seeing 
Isabel  there  some  day  and  hearing  her  singing  in  the  choir. 

When  the  service  was  over  I  asked  for  the  secretary  and 
was  shown  into  his  room. 

I  dare  say  he  was  a  good  man,  but  oh!  why  will  so  many 
good  people  wear  such  wintry  weather  in  their  faces  that 
merely  to  look  at  them  pierces  a  poor  woman  to  the  soul  f 

Apologising  for  the  day,  I  told  my  story  again  (my  head  a 
little  down),  saying  I  understood  that  it  was  no  barrier  to  a 
child  in  that  orphanage  that  she  had  been  born  outside  the 
pale  of  the  law. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  secretary,  "that  is  precisely 
the  kind  of  child  this  house  is  intended  for." 

But  when  I  went  on  to  say  that  I  assumed  they  still  observed 
the  wish  of  the  founder  that  no  questions  of  any  kind  should 
be  asked  about  a  child's  birth  or  parentage,  he  said  no,  they 
had  altered  all  that.  Then  he  proceeded  to  explain  that  before 
a  child  could  be  received  the  mother  must  now  go  before  a 
committee  of  gentlemen  to  satisfy  them  of  her  previous 
good  character,  and  that  the  father  of  her  baby  had  deserted 
both  of  them. 

More  than  that,  he  told  me  that  on  being  received  the  child 
was  immediately  re-registered  and  given  a  new  name,  in 
order  that  it  might  be  cut  off  from  the  sin  of  its  parents  and 
the  contamination  of  their  shame. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  describe  the  feelings  with 
which  I  listened  to  the  secretary  while  he  said  all  this,  with 
the  cast-metal  face  of  a  man  who  was  utterly  unconscious  of 
the  enormity  of  the  crime  he  was  describing. 

"Before  a  committee  of  gentlemen?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  so." 

"Who  are  to  ask  her  all  those  questions?" 

"Yes." 

"And  then  they  are  to  change  her  baby's  name?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  she  told  what  the  new  name  is  to  be?" 


I  AM  LOST  465 

"No,  but  she  is  given  a  piece  of  parchment  containing  a 
number  which  corresponds  with  the  name  in  our  books. ' ' 

I  rose  to  my  feet,  flushing  up  to  the  eyes  I  think,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot  I  know,  and,  forgetting  who  and  what  I 
was  and  why  I  was  there — a  poor,  helpless,  penniless  being 
seeking  shelter  for  her  child — I  burst  out  on  the  man  in  all 
the  mad  wrath  of  outraged  motherhood. 

"And  you  call  this  a  Christian  institution!"  I  said.  "You 
take  a  poor  woman  in  her  hour  of  trouble  and  torture  her  with 
an  inquisition  into  the  most  secret  facts  of  her  life,  in  public, 
and  before  a  committee  of  men.  And  then  you  take  her 
child,  and  so  far  as  she  is  concerned  you  bury  it,  and  give 
her  a  ticket  to  its  grave.  A  hospital?  This  is  no  hospital. 
It  is  a  cemetery.  And  yet  you  dare  to  write  over  your  gates 
the  words  of  our  Lord — our  holy  and  loving  and  blessed  Lord 
— who  said,  'Suffer  little  children  .  .  .'  ' 

But  what  is  the  use  of  repeating  what  I  said  then  (perhaps 
unjustly)  or  afterwards  in  the  silence  of  my  own  room  and 
the  helpless  intoxication  of  my  rage? 

It  was  soon  stamped  out  of  me. 

By  the  end  of  another  week  I  was  driven  to  such  despair 
by  the  continued  extortions  of  the  Olivers  that,  seeing  an 
advertisement  in  the  Underground  Railway  of  a  Home  for 
children  in  the  country  (asking  for  subscriptions  and  showing 
a  group  of  happy  little  people  playing  under  a  chestnut-tree 
in  bloom),  I  decided  to  make  one  more  effort. 

"  They  can't  all  be  machines,"  I  thought,  "  with  the 
founders'  hearts  crushed  out  of  them." 

The  day  was  Friday,  when  work  was  apt  to  heap  up  at  the 
Jew's,  and  Mrs.  Abramovitch  had  brought  vests  enough  to 
my  room  to  cover  my  bed,  but  nevertheless  I  put  on  my  hat 
and  coat  and  set  out  for  the  orphanage. 

It  was  fifteen  miles  on  the  north  side  of  London,  so  it  cost 
me  something  to  get  there.  But  I  was  encouraged  by  the 
homelike  appearance  of  the  place  when  I  reached  it,  and  still 
more  by  finding  that  it  was  conducted  by  women,  for  at  last, 
I  thought,  the  woman-soul  would  speak  to  me. 

But  hardly  had  I  told  my  story  to  the  matron,  repeating 
my  request  (very  timidly  this  time  and  with  such  a  humble, 
humble  heart)  that  I  might  be  allowed  to  recover  my  child 
as  soon  as  I  found  myself  able  to  provide  for  her,  than  she 
stopped  me  and  said : 

2ft 


466  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"My  dear  young  person,  we  could  have  half  the  orphan 
children  in  London  on  your  terms.  Before  we  accept  such 
a  child  as  yours  we  expect  the  parent  to  give  us  a  legal  under- 
taking that  she  relinquishes  all  rights  in  it  until  it  is  sixteen 
years  of  age." 

"Sixteen?     Isn't  that  rather  severe  on  a  mother?"  I  said. 

"Justly  severe,"  said  the  matron.  "Such  women  should 
be  made  to  maintain  their  children,  and  thus  realise  that  the 
way  of  transgressors  is  hard." 

How  I  got  back  to  London,  whether  by  rail  or  tram  or  on 
foot,  or  what  happened  on  the  way  (except  that  darkness  was 
settling  down  on  me,  within  and  without),  I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  that  very  late  that  night,  as  late  as  eleven  o  'clock, 
I  was  turning  out  of  Park  Lane  into  Piccadilly,  where  the 
poor  ' '  public  women ' '  with  their  painted  faces,  dangling  their 
little  hand-bags  from  their  wrists,  were  promenading  in  front 
of  the  gentlemen's  clubs  and  smiling  up  at  the  windows. 

These  were  the  scenes  which  had  formerly  appalled  me; 
but  now  I  was  suddenly  surprised  by  a  different  feeling,  and 
found  myself  thinking  that  among  the  women  who  sinned 
against  their  womanhood  there  might  be  some  who  sold  them- 
selves for  bread  to  keep  those  they  loved  and  who  loved  them. 

This  thought  was  passing  through  my  mind  when  I  heard 
a  hollow  ringing  laugh  from  a  woman  who  was  standing  at  the 
foot  of  a  flight  of  steps  talking  to  a  group  of  three  gentlemen 
whose  white  shirt  fronts  beneath  their  overcoats  showed  that 
they  were  in  evening  dress. 

Her  laughter  was  not  natural.  It  had  no  joy  in  it,  yet 
she  laughed  and  laughed,  and  feeling  as  if  I  knew  (because 
life  had  that  day  trampled  on  me  also),  I  said  to  myself: 

' '  That  woman 's  heart  is  dead. ' ' 

This  caused  me  to  glance  at  her  as  I  passed,  when,  catching 
a  side  glimpse  of  her  face,  I  was  startled  by  a  memory  I  could 
not  fix. 

"Where  and  when  have  I  seen  that  woman's  face  before?" 
I  thought. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  I  could  have  seen  it  anywhere. 
But  the  woman's  resemblance  to  somebody  I  had  known. 
coupled  with  her  joyless  laughter,  compelled  me  to  stop  at 
the  next  corner  and  look  back. 

By  this  time  the  gentlemen,  who  had  been  treating  her 
lightly  (0  God,  how  men  treat  such  women!),  had  left  her 


I  AM  LOST  467 

and,  coming  arm-in-arm  in  my  direction,  with,  their  silk  hats 
tilted  a  little  back,  were  saving: 

' '  Poor  old  Aggie !  She 's  off ! "  "  Completely  off ! "  "  Is  it 
drink,  I  wonder?" 

And  then,  seeing  me,  they  said : 

"Gad,  here's  a  nice  little  gal,  though!"  "No  rouge, 
neither!"  "By  Jove,  no!  Her  face  is  as  white  as  a  water- 
lily!" 

Seeing  that  they  were  wheeling  round,  and  fearing  they 
were  going  to  speak  to  me,  I  moved  back  and  so  came  face 
to  face  with  the  woman,  who  was  standing  where  they  had  left 
her,  silent  now,  and  looking  after  the  men  with  fierce  eyes 
under  the  fair  hair  that  curled  over  her  forehead. 

Then  in  a  moment  a  memory  from  the  far  past  swept  over 
me,  and  I  cried,  almost  as  if  the  name  had  been  forced  out 
of  me: 

"Sister  Angela!" 

The  woman  started,  and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  she 
were  going  to  run  away.  Then  she  laid  hold  of  me  by  the  arm 
and,  looking  searchingly  into  my  face,  said: 

"Who  are  you?  ...  I  know.  You  are  Mary  O'Neill, 
aren  't  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  you  were.  I  read  about  your  marriage  to  that 
.  .  .  that  man.  And  now  you  are  wondering  why  I  am 
here.  Well,  come  home  with  me  and  see." 

It  was  not  until  afterwards  that  I  knew  by  what  mistake 
about  my  presence  in  that  place  Angela  thought  she  must 
justify  herself  in  my  eyes  (mine!);  but  taking  me  by  the 
hand,  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  child,  she  led, 
almost  pulled,  me  down  Piccadilly,  and  my  will  was  so  broken 
that  I  did  not  attempt  to  resist  her. 

We  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus,  with  its  white  sheet  of  electric 
light,  and,  turning  into  the  darker  thoroughfares  on  the 
northern  side  of  it,  walked  on  until,  in  a  narrow  street  of 
the  Italian  quarter  of  Soho,  we  stopped  at  a  private  door  by 
the  side  of  a  cafe  that  had  an  Italian  name  on  the  window. 

"This  is  where  we  live.  Come  in,"  said  Angela,  and  I 
followed  her  through  a  long  empty  lobby  and  up  three  flights 
of  bare  stairs. 

While  we  ascended,  there  was  the  deadened  sound,  as  from 
the  cafe,  of  men  singing  (in  throbbing  voices  to  mandolines 
and  guitars)  one  of  the  Italian  songs  which  I  remembered 


468  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

to  have  heard  from  the  piazza  outside  the  convent  on  that 
night  when  Sister  Angela  left  me  in  bed  while  she  went  off 
to  visit  the  chaplain: 

"Oh  bella  Napoli,  Oh  suol  beato 
Onde  sorridere  voile  il  creato." 

"The  Italian  Club,"  said  Angela,  "Only  one  flight  more. 
Come!" 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIRST  CHAPTER 

AT  length  Angela  opened,  with  a  key  from  her  satchel,  a  door 
on  the  top  landing,  and  we  entered  a  darkened  room  which 
was  partly  in  the  roof. 

As  we  stepped  in  I  heard  rapid  breathing,  which  told  me 
that  we  were  in  a  sick  chamber,  and  then  a  man's  voice,  very 
husky  and  weak,  saying: 

"Is  that  you,  Agnes?" 

"It's  only  me,  dear,"  said  Angela. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  up  the  solitary  gas-jet,  which 
had  been  burning  low,  and  I  saw  the  shadowy  form  of  a  man 
lying  in  a  bed  that  stood  in  a  corner.  He  was  wasted  with 
consumption,  his  long  bony  hands  were  lying  on  the  counter- 
pane, his  dark  hair  was  matted  over  his  forehead  as  from 
sweat,  but  I  could  not  mistake  the  large,  lively  grey  eyes 
that  looked  out  of  his  long  thin  face.  It  was  Father  Giovanni. 

Angela  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him,  and  I  could  see 
that  his  eyes  lighted  with  a  smile  as  he  saw  her  coming  into 
the  room. 

' '  There 's  somebody  with  you,  isn  't  there  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes.    Who  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"Who?" 

"Don't  you  remember  little  Margaret  Mary  at  the  Sacred 
Heart?" 

"Is  this  she?" 

"Yes,"  said  Angela,  and  then  in  a  hoarse,  angry  voice  the 
man  said: 

"What  has  she  come  here  for?" 

Angela  told  him  that  I  had  seen  her  on  Piccadilly,  and 
being  a  great  lady  now,  I  (Oh  heaven !)  was  one  of  the  people 
who  came  out  into  the  streets  at  midnight  to  rescue  lost  ones. 

' '  She  looked  as  if  she  wondered  what  had  brought  me  dowu 
to  that  life,  so  I  've  fetched  her  home  to  see. ' ' 


I  AM  LOST  469 

I  was  shocked  at  Angela 's  mistake,  but  before  I  could  gather 
strength  or  courage  to  correct  her  Giovanni  was  raising  him- 
self in  bed  and  saying,  with  a  defiant  air,  his  eyes  blazing  like 
watch-fires : 

' '  She  does  it  for  me,  if  you  want  to  know.  I  've  been  eleven 
months  ill — she  does  it  all  for  me,  I  tell  you." 

And  then,  in  one  of  those  outbursts  of  animation  which 
come  to  the  victims  of  that  fell  disease,  he  gave  me  a  rapid 
account  of  what  had  happened  to  them  since  they  ran  away 
from  Rome — how  at  first  he  had  earned  their  living  as  a 
teacher  of  languages;  how  it  became  known  that  he  was 
an  unfrocked  and  excommunicated  priest  who  had  broken 
his  vows/  and  then  his  pupils  had  left  him ;  how  they  had 
struggled  on  for  some  years  longer,  though  pursued  by  this 
character  as  by  a  malignant  curse;  and  how  at  length  his 
health  had  quite  broken  down,  and  he  would  have  starved 
but  for  Agnes  (Angela  being  her  nun's  name),  who  had  stuck 
to  him  through  everything. 

While  the  sick  man  said  this  in  his  husky  voice,  Angela 
was  sitting  on  the  bed  by  his  side  with  her  arm  about  his 
waist,  listening  to  him  with  a  sort  of  pride  and  looking  at 
me  with  a  kind  of  triumph. 

"I  dare  say  you  wonder  why  I  didn't  try  to  get  work," 
she  said.  "I  could  have  got  it  if  I  had  wanted  to.  I  could 
have  got  it  at  the  Italian  laundry.  But  what  was  two  shillings 
a  day  to  a  man  who  was  ordered  new  milk  and  fresh  eggs 
five  times  every  twenty-four  hours,  not  to  speak  of  the  house 
rent?" 

"She  ought  to  have  let  me  die  first,"  said  Giovanni,  and 
then,  looking  at  me  again  with  his  large,  glittering,  fierce  eyes, 
he  said: 

"You  think  she  ought  to  have  let  me  die,  don't  you?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  I  said — it  was  all  I  could  say,  for  their  mis- 
take about  myself  was  choking  me. 

Perhaps  my  emotion  appeased  both  of  them,  for  after  a 
moment  Angela  beat  out  Giovanni's  pillow  and  straightened 
his  counterpane,  and  then  told  him  to  lie  down  and  be  quiet, 
while  she  brought  a  chair  for  me  and  took  off  her  things  in 
her  own  bedroom. 

But  hardly  had  she  gone  into  an  adjoining  chamber  when 
the  sick  man  raised  himself  again  and,  reaching  over  in  my 
direction,  told  me  in  a  hoarse  whisper  the  story  of  the  first 
night  of  her  present  way  of  life — how  the  doctor  had  said 


470  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

he  must  be  removed  to  the  hospital;  how  Agnes  would  not 
part  with  him;  how  the  landlord  had  threatened  to  turn 
them  out ;  and  how  at  last,  after  sitting  with  her  head  in  her 
hands  the  whole  evening,  Aggie  had  got  up  and  gone  out  and, 
coming  back  at  midnight,  had  thrown  two  sovereigns  on  the 
table  and  said,  "There  you  are,  Giovanni — that's  our  rent 
and  your  eggs  and  milk  for  one  week,  anyway." 

By  this  time  Angela  had  returned  to  the  room  (her  paint 
and  rouge  washed  off,  and  her  gay  clothes  replaced  by  a 
simple  woollen  jacket  over  a  plain  underskirt),  and  she  began 
to  beat  up  an  egg,  to  boil  some  milk,  to  pour  out  a  dose  of 
medicine,  and  to  do,  with  all  a  good  woman's  tact,  a  good 
woman's  tenderness,  the  little  services  of  which  an  invalid 
stands  in  need. 

Oh  heavens,  how  beautiful  it  was — fearfully,  awfully 
tragically  beautiful! 

I  was  deeply  moved  as  I  sat  in  silence  watching  her;  and 
when  at  length  Giovanni,  who  had  been  holding  her  hand 
in  his  own  long,  bony  ones  and  sometimes  putting  it  to  his 
lips,  dropped  off  to  sleep  (tired  out,  perhaps,  by  talking  to 
me),  and  she,  drawing  up  to  where  I  sat  by  the  end  of  the 
bed,  resumed  her  self-defence,  saying  in  a  whisper  that  ladies 
like  me  could  not  possibly  understand  what  a  woman  would 
do,  in  spite  of  herself,  when  the  life  of  one  she  loved  was 
threatened,  I  could  bear  her  mistake  no  longer,  but  told  her 
of  my  real  condition — that  I  was  no  longer  a  lady,  that  I 
had  run  away  from  my  husband,  that  I  had  a  child,  and 
was  living  as  a  poor  seamstress  in  the  East  End  of  London. 

Angela  listened  to  my  story  in  astonishment;  and  when  I 
had  come  to  an  end  she  was  holding  my  hand  and  looking 
into  my  eyes  with  just  that  look  which  she  had  when  she 
put  me  to  bed  for  the  first  time  at  school,  and,  making  her 
voice  very  low,  told  me  to  be  a  good  child  of  the  Infant  Jesus. 

"It's  nearly  one  o'clock.  You  can't  go  back  to  the  East 
End  to-night,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  I  must,  I  must,"  I  said,  getting  up  and  making  for 
the  door.  But  before  I  had  reached  it  my  limbs  gave  way, 
whether  from  the  strain  of  emotion  or  physical  weakness,  and 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Angela  I  should  have  dropped  to  the 
floor. 

After  that  she  would  hear  of  no  excuses.  I  must  stay 
until  morning.  I  could  sleep  in  her  own  bed  in  the  other 
room,  and  she  could  lay  a  mattress  for  herself  on  the  floor  by 


I  AM  LOST  471 

the  side  of  Giovanni's.  There  would  be  no  great  sacrifice 
in  that.  It  was  going  to  be  one  of  Giovanni's  bad  nights, 
and  she  was  likely  to  be  up  and  down  all  the  time  anyway. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  bed  in  a  little  room  that  was 
separated  by  a  thin  papered  partition  from  the  room  of  the 
poor  consumptive,  and  Angela,  who  had  brought  me  a  cup 
of  hot  milk,  was  saying  in  a  whisper: 

' '  He 's  very  bad.  The  doctor  says  he  can 't  last  longer  than 
a  week.  Sister  Veronica  (you  remember  her,  she's  Mildred 
Bankes  that  used  to  be)  tried  to  get  him  into  a  home  for  the 
dying.  It  was  all  arranged,  too,  but  at  the  last  moment  he 
wouldn't  go.  He  told  them  that,  if  they  wanted  to  separate 
him  from  Agnes,  they  had  better  bring  his  coffin  because  he 
would  be  dead  before  they  got  him  to  the  door." 

When  she  had  gone  I  lay  a  long  time  in  the  dark,  listening 
to  the  sounds  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition. 

Giovanni  awoke  with  an  alarming  fit  of  coughing,  and  in 
the  querulous,  plaintive,  fretful,  sometimes  angry  tones  which 
invalids  have,  he  grumbled  at  Angela  and  then  cried  over 
her,  saying  what  a  burden  he  was  to  her,  while  she,  moving 
about  the  room  in  her  bare  feet,  coaxed  and  caressed  him, 
and  persuaded  him  to  take  his  milk  or  his  medicine. 

Through  all  this  I  would  hear  at  intervals  the  drumming 
noises  of  the  singing  downstairs,  which  sounded  in  my  ears 
(as  the  singers  were  becoming  more  and  more  intoxicated) 
like  the  swirling  and  screeching  of  an  ironical  requiem  for  the 
dying  man  before  he  was  dead : 

"Oh  bella  Napoli,  Oh  suol  beato 
Onde  sorridere  voile  il  creato." 

But  somewhere  in  those  dead  hours  in  which  London  sleeps 
everything  became  still,  and  my  mind,  which  had  been  ques- 
tioning the  grim  darkness  on  the  worst  of  the  world 's  tragedies 
(what  a  woman  will  do  for  those  she  loves),  fell  back  on  my- 
self and  I  thought  of  the  Christian  institutions  which  had 
turned  me  from  their  doors,  and  then  of  this  "street- walker" 
who  had  given  up  her  own  bed  to  me  and  was  now  lying  in  the 
next  room  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor. 

I  could  not  help  it  if  I  felt  a  startling  reverence  for  Angela, 
as  a  ministering  angel  faithful  unto  death,  and  I  remembered 
that  as  I  fell  asleep  I  was  telling  myself  that  we  all  needed 
God's  mercy,  God's  pardon,  and  that  God  would  forgive  her 
because  she  had  loved  much 


472  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

But  sleep  was  more  tolerant  still.  I  dreamt  that  Angela 
died,  and  on  reaching  the  gates  of  heaven  all  the  saints  of 
God  met  her,  and  after  they  had  clothed  her  in  a  spotless 
white  robe,  one  of  them — it  was  the  blessed  Mary  Magdalene 
— took  her  hand  and  said : 

' '  Here  is  another  of  the  holy  martyrs. ' ' 

I  awoke  from  that  dream  with  beads  of  perspiration  on  my 
forehead.  But  I  dare  not  say  what  confused  and  terrible 
thoughts  came  next,  except  that  they  were  about  baby — what 
I  might  do  myself  if  driven  to  the  last  extremity.  When 
I  slept  and  dreamt  again,  it  was  I  who  was  dead,  and  it  was 
my  darling  mother  who  met  me  and  took  me  to  the  feet  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin  and  said: 

"Mother  of  all  Mothers,  who  knows  all  that  is  in  a  mother's 
heart,  this  is  my  little  daughter.  She  did  not  intend  to  do 
wrong.  It  was  all  for  the  sake  of  her  child." 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  with  the  darkness  shivering 
off  through  the  gloom,  this  last  dream  was  sitting  upon  me 
like  a  nightmare.  It  terrified  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  standing 
on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  and  some  awful  forces  were  trying 
to  push  me  over  it. 

The  London  sparrows  were  chirping  on  the  skylight  over 
my  head,  and  I  could  faintly  hear  the  Italian  criers  in  the 
front  street " 

"Lattel"   "Spazzina!"   "Erbaggi  freschi!" 

In  spite  of  myself  (hating  myself  for  it  after  all  the  tender- 
ness that  had  been  shown  me),  I  could  not  overcome  a  feeling 
of  shame  at  finding  myself  lying  where  I  was,  and  I  got  up 
to  run  away  that  I  might  cleanse  my  soul  of  the  evil  thoughts 
which  had  come  to  me  while  there. 

As  I  dressed  I  listened  for  a  sound  from  the  adjoining 
room.  All  was  quiet  now.  The  poor  restless  ones  were  at 
last  getting  a  little  rest. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  I  passed  on  tiptoe  through  their 
room  without  looking  towards  the  bed,  and  reaching  the 
door  to  the  staircase  I  opened  it  as  noiselessly  as  I  could. 

Then  I  closed  it  softly  after  me,  on  so  much  suffering  and 
so  much  love. 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SECOND  CHAPTER 

THE  sun  was  shining  in  the  street.    It  was  one  of  those  clear, 
clean,  frosty  mornings  when  the  very  air  of  London,  even  in 


I  AM  LOST  473 

the  worst  places,  seems  to  be  washed  by  the  sunlight  from  the 
sin  and  drink  of  the  night  before. 

I  was  on  my  way  to  that  church  among  the  mews  of  May- 
fair  to  which  I  had  gone  so  frequently  during  the  early  days 
of  my  marriage  when  I  was  struggling  against  the  mortal 
sin  (as  I  thought  it  was)  of  loving  Martin. 

Just  as  I  reached  the  church  and  was  ascending  the  steps, 
a  gorgeous  landau  with  high-stepping  horses  and  a  powdered 
footman  drew  up  at  the  bottom  of  them. 

The  carriage,  which  bore  a  coronet  on  the  door,  contained 
a  lady  in  long  furs,  a  rosy-faced  baby-girl  in  squirrel  skins 
with  a  large  doll  in  her  arms,  and  a  nurse. 

I  could  see  that,  like  myself,  the  lady  (a  young  mother) 
had  come  to  confess,  for  as  she  rose  from  her  seat  she  told 
the  child  to  sit  quiet  and  be  good  and  she  would  not  keep 
her  long. 

"Turn  out  soon,  mummy,  and  dolly  will  lub  you  eber  and 
eber,"  said  the  child. 

The  lady  stooped  and  kissed  the  little  one,  and  then,  with 
a  proud  and  happy  look,  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  and 
passed  into  the  church,  while  the  door-keeper  opened  the 
vestibule  door  for  her  and  bowed  deeply. 

I  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  for  a  moment  looking  back 
at  the  carriage,  the  horses,  the  footman,  the  nurse,  and,  above 
all,  the  baby-girl  with  her  doll,  and  then  followed  the  lady 
into  the  church. 

Apparently  mass  was  just  over.  Little  spirelets  of  smoke 
were  rising  from  the  candles  on  the  altar  which  the  sacristan 
was  putting  out,  a  few  communicants  were  still  on  their  knees, 
and  others  with  light  yet  echoing  footsteps  were  making  for 
the  door. 

The  lady  in  furs  had  already  taken  her  place  at  one  of  the 
confessional  boxes,  and  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  other  that 
was  occupied  by  a  priest,  I  knelt  on  a  chair  in  the  nave  and 
tried  to  fix  my  mind  on  the  prayers  (once  so  familiar)  for  the 
examination  of  conscience  before  confession: 

"Oh,  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  dispel  the  darkness  of  my  heart, 
that  I  may  bewail  my  sins  and  rightly  confess  them." 

But  the  labouring  of  my  spirit  was  like  the  flight  of  a  bat 
in  the  daylight.  Though  I  tried  hard  to  keep  my  mind  from 
wandering,  I  could  not  do  so.  Again  and  again  it  went  back 
to  the  lady  in  furs  with  the  coroneted  carriage  and  the  high- 
stepping  horses. 


474  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

She  was  about  my  own  age,  and  she  began  to  rise  before 
my  tightly  closed  eyes  as  a  vision  of  what  I  might  have  been 
myself  if  I  had  not  given  up  everything  for  love — wealth, 
rank,  title,  luxury. 

God  is  my  witness  that  down  to  that  moment  I  had  never 
once  thought  I  had  made  any  sacrifice,  but  now,  as  by  a 
flash  of  cruel  lightning,  I  saw  myself  as  I  was — a  peeress  who 
had  run  away  from  her  natural  condition  and  was  living  in 
the  slums,  working  like  any  other  work-girl. 

Even  this  did  not  hurt  me  much,  but  when  I  thought  of 
the  rosy-faced  child  in  the  carriage,  and  then  of  my  own 
darling  at  Mrs.  Oliver's  as  I  had  seen  her  last,  so  thin  and 
pale,  and  with  her  little  bib  stained  by  her  curdled  milk,  a 
feeling  I  had  never  had  before  pierced  to  my  very  soul. 

I  asked  myself  if  this  was  what  God  looked  down  upon  and 
permitted — that  because  I  had  obeyed  what  I  still  believed 
to  be  the  purest  impulse  of  my  nature,  love,  my  child  must 
be  made  to  suffer. 

Then  something  hard  began  to  form  in  my  heart.  I  told 
myself  that  what  I  had  been  taught  to  believe  about  God 
was  falsehood  and  deception. 

All  this  time  I  was  trying  to  hush  down  my  mind  by  saying 
my  prayer,  which  called  on  the  gracious  Virgin  Mary  to  inter- 
cede for  me  with  my  Redeemer,  and  the  holy  Saints  of  God  to 
assist  me. 

"Assist  me  by  thy  grace,  that  1  may  be  able  to  declare  my 
sins  to  the  priest,  thy  Vicar." 

It  was  of  no  use.  Every  moment  my  heart  was  hardening, 
and  what  I  had  intended  to  confess  about  my  wicked  thoughts 
of  the  night  before  was  vanishing  away.  At  last  I  rose  to  my 
feet  and,  lifting  my  head,  looked  boldly  up  at  the  altar. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  young  peeress,  having  finished  her 
confession,  went  off  with  a  light  step  and  a  cheerful  face.  Her 
kneeling-place  at  the  confessional  box  was  now  vacant,  yet 
I  did  not  attempt  to  take  it,  and  some  minutes  passed  in 
which  I  stood  biting  my  lips  to  prevent  a  cry.  Then  the 
priest  parted  his  curtains  and  beckoned  to  me,  and  I  moved 
across  and  stood  stubbornly  by  the  perforated  brass  grating. 

"Father,"  I  said,  as  firmly  as  I  could,  for  my  throat  was 
fluttering,  "I  came  here  to  make  my  confession,  but  some- 
thing has  come  over  me  since  I  entered  this  church,  and  now 
I  cannot." 

"What  has  come  over  you,  my  child?"  asked  the  priest 


I  AM  LOST  475 

"I  feel  that  what  is  said  about  God  in  a  place  like  this, 
that  He  is  a  kind  and  beneficent  Father,  who  is  just  and 
merciful  and  pities  the  sufferings  of  His  children,  is  untrue. 
It  is  all  wrong  and  false.  God  does  not  care." 

The  priest  did  not  answer  me  immediately,  but  after  a 
moment  of  silence  he  said  in  a  quivering  voice : 

"My  child,  I  feel  just  like  that  myself  sometimes.  It  is 
the  devil  tempting  you.  He  is  standing  by  your  side  and 
whispering  in  your  ear,  at  this  moment." 

I  shuddered,  and  the  priest  added: 

"I  see  how  it  is,  my  daughter.  You  are  suffering,  and 
those  you  love  are  suffering  too.  But  must  you  surrender 
your  faith  on  that  account?  Look  round  at  the  pictures 
on  these  walls  [the  Stations  of  the  Cross] .  Think  of  the  Great 
Sufferer,  the  Great  Martyr,  who  in  the  hour  of  His  death,  at 
the  malicious  power  of  the  world,  cried,  'Eloi,  Eloi,  lama 
sabachthani:  My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me? '  ' 

I  had  dropped  to  my  knees  by  now,  my  head  was  down, 
and  my  hands  were  clasped  together. 

"You  are  wrong,  my  child,  if  you  think  God  does  not  care 
for  you  because  He  allows  you  to  suffer.  Are  you  rich? 
Are  you  prosperous?  Have  you  every  earthly  blessing? 
Then  beware,  for  Satan  is  watching  for  your  soul.  But  are 
you  poor  ?  Are  you  going  through  unmerited  trouble  ?  Have 
you  lost  some  one  who  was  dearer  to  you  than  your  heart 
of  hearts?  Then  take  courage,  for  our  holy  and  blessed 
Saviour  has  marked  you  for  His  own. ' ' 

I  know  nothing  of  that  priest  except  his  whispering  voice, 
which,  coming  through  the  grating  of  the  confessional,  pro- 
duced the  effect  of  the  supernatural,  but  I  thought  then, 
and  I  think  now,  that  he  must  have  been  a  great  as  well  as 
a  good  man. 

I  perfectly  recollect  that,  when  I  left  the  church  and 
passed  into  the  streets,  it  seemed  as  if  his  spirit  went  with 
me  and  built  up  in  my  soul  a  resolution  that  was  bright  with 
heavenly  tears  and  sunshine. 

Work!  Work!  "Work!  I  should  work  still  harder  than 
before.  No  matter  how  mean,  ill-paid,  and  uncongenial  my 
work  might  be,  I  should  work  all  day  and  all  night  if  neces- 
sary. And  since  I  had  failed  to  get  my  child  into  an 
orphanage,  it  was  clearly  intended  that  I  should  keep  her 
with  me,  for  my  own  charge  and  care  and  joy. 


476  THE   WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

This  was  the  mood  in  which  I  returned  to  the  house  of 
the  Jew. 

It  was  Saturday  morning,  and  though  the  broader 
thoroughfares  of  the  East  End  were  crowded  and  the  nar- 
rower streets  full  of  life,  the  Jew's  house  was  silent,  for  it 
was  the  Jewish  Sabbath. 

As  I  went  hurriedly  upstairs  I  heard  the  Jew  himself, 
who  was  dressing  for  the  synagogue,  singing  his  Sabbath 
hymn:  Lerho  daudee  likras  kollo — "Come,  0  friend,  let  us 
go  forth  to  meet  the  Bride,  let  us  receive  the  Sabbath  with 
joy!" 

Then  came  a  shock. 

When  I  reached  my  room  I  found,  to  my  dismay,  that  the 
pile  of  vests  which  I  had  left  on  my  bed  on  going  out  the 
day  before  had  been  removed;  and  just  as  I  was  telling  my- 
self that  no  one  else  except  Mrs.  Abramovitch  had  a  key 
to  my  door  I  heard  shuffling  footsteps  on  the  stair,  and  knew 
that  her  husband  was  coming  up  to  me. 

A  moment  afterwards  the  Jew  stood  in  my  doorway.  He 
was  dressed  in  his  Sabbath  suit  and,  free  from  the  in- 
congruous indications  of  his  homely  calling,  the  patriarchal 
appearance  which  had  first  struck  me  was  even  more  marked 
than  before.  His  face  was  pale,  his  expression  was  severe, 
and  if  his  tongue  betrayed  the  broken  English  of  the  Polish 
Jew,  I,  in  my  confusion  and  fear,  did  not  notice  it  then. 

My  first  thought  was  that  he  had  come  to  reprove  me  for 
neglecting  my  work,  and  I  was  prepared  to  promise  to  make 
up  for  my  absence.  But  at  a  second  glance  I  saw  that  some- 
thing had  happened,  something  had  become  known,  and  that 
he  was  there  to  condemn  and  denounce  me. 

"You  have  been  out  all  night,"  he  said.  "Can  you  tell  me 
where  you  have  been?" 

I  knew  I  could  not,  and  though  it  flashed  upon  me  to  say 
that  I  had  slept  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  I  saw  that,  if  he 
asked  who  my  friend  was,  and  what,  I  should  be  speechless. 

The  Jew  waited  for  my  reply  and  then  said: 

' '  You  have  given  us  a  name — can  you  say  it  is  your  true 
and  right  one?" 

Again  I  made  no  answer,  and  after  another  moment  the 
Jew  said : 

"Can  you  deny  that  you  have  a  child  whom  you  have 
hidden  from  our  knowledge?" 

I  felt  myself  gasping,  but  still  I  did  not  speak. 


I  AM  LOST  477 

"Can  you  say  that  it  was  lawfully  born  according  to  your 
Christian  marriage?" 

I  felt  the  colour  flushing  into  my  face  but  I  was  still  silent ; 
and  after  a  moment  in  which,  as  I  could  see,  the  stern- 
natured  Jew  was  summing  me  up  as  a  woman  of  double  life 
and  evil  character,  he  said : 

' '  Then  it  is  true  ?  .  .  .  Very  well,  you  will  understand 
that  from  this  day  you  cease  to  be  in  my  service. ' ' 

All  this  time  my  eyes  were  down,  but  I  was  aware  that 
somebody  else  had  come  into  the  room.  It  was  Miriam,  and 
she  was  trying  to  plead  for  me. 

"Father  ..."  she  began,  but,  turning  hotly  upon  her, 
the  Jew  cried  passionately: 

"Go  away!  A  true  daughter  of  Israel  should  know  better 
than  to  speak  for  such  a  woman." 

I  heard  the  girl  going  slowly  down  the  stairs,  and  then  the 
Jew,  stepping  up  to  me  and  speaking  more  loudly  than  be- 
fore, said : 

"Woman,  leave  my  house  at  once,  before  you  corrupt  the 
conscience  of  my  child." 

Again  I  became  aware  that  some  one  had  come  into  the 
room.  It  was  Mrs.  Abramovitch,  and  she,  too,  was  pleading 
for  me. 

"Israel!  Calm  thyself !  Do  not  give  way  to  injustice  and 
anger.  On  Shobbos  morning,  too!" 

"Hannah,"  said  the  Jew,  "thou  speakest  with  thy  mouth, 
not  thy  heart.  The  Christian  doth  not  deny  that  she  hath 
given  thee  a  false  name,  and  is  the  adulterous  mother  of  a 
misbegotten  child.  If  she  were  a  Jewish  woman  she  would  be 
summoned  before  the  Beth  Din,  and  in  better  days  our  law 
of  Moses  would  have  sto-ned  her.  Shall  she,  because  she  is  a 
Christian,  dishonour  a  good  Jewish  house?  No!  The  hand 
of  the  Lord  would  go  out  against  me." 

"But  she  is  homeless,  and  she  hath  been  a  good  servant 
to  thee,  Israel.  Give  her  time  to  find  another  shelter." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  after  that,  and  then  the 
Jew  said: 

"Very  well!  It  shall  not  be  said  that  Israel  Abramovitch 
knows  not  to  temper  justice  with  mercy." 

And  then,  my  face  being  still  down,  I  heard  him  saying 
over  my  head: 

"You  may  stay  here  another  week.  After  that  I  wash  my 
hands  of  thee." 


478  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

With  these  hard  words  he  turned  away,  and  I  heard  him 
going  heavily  down  the  stairs.  His  wife  stayed  a  little 
longer,  saying  something  in  a  kind  voice,  which  I  did  not 
comprehend,  and  then  she  followed  him. 

I  do  not  think  I  had  spoken  a  word.  I  continued  to  stand 
where  the  Jew  had  left  me.  After  a  while  I  heard  him  closing 
and  locking  the  door  of  his  own  apartment,  and  knew  that 
he  was  going  off  to  his  synagogue  in  Brick  Lane  in  his  tall 
silk  hat  worn  on  the  back  of  his  head  like  a  skull-cap,  and 
with  his  wife  and  daughter  behind  him,  carrying  his  leather- 
bound  prayer-book. 

I  hardly  knew  what  else  was  happening.  My  heart  was 
heaving  like  a  dead  body  on  a  billow.  All  that  the  priest 
had  said  was  gone.  In  its  place  there  was  a  paralysing 
despair  as  if  the  wheels  of  life  were  rolling  over  me. 


My  dear,  long-suffering,  martyred  darling! 

It  makes  my  blood  boil  to  see  how  the  very  powers  of 
darkness,  in  the  name  of  religion,  morality,  philanthropy 
and  the  judgment  of  God,  were  persecuting  my  poor  little 
woman. 

But  why  speak  of  myself  at  all,  or  interrupt  my  darling's 
narrative,  except  to  say  what  was  happening  in  my  efforts 
to  reach  her? 

While  we  were  swinging  along  in  our  big  liner  over  the 
heaving  bosom  of  the  Mediterranean  the  indefinable  sense 
of  her  danger  never  left  me  day  or  night. 

That  old  dream  of  the  glacier  and  the  precipice  continued 
to  haunt  my  sleep,  with  the  difference  that,  instead  of  the 
aurora  glistening  in  my  dear  one's  eyes,  there  was  now  a 
blizzard  behind  her. 

The  miserable  thing  so  tortured  me  as  we  approached 
Malta  (where  I  expected  to  receive  a  reply  to  the  cable  I 
had  sent  from  Port  Said  to  the  house  of  Daniel  O'Neill) )  that 
I  felt  physically  weak  at  the  thought  of  the  joy  or  sorrow 
ahead  of  me. 

Though  there  was  no  telegram  from  my  darling  at  Malta, 
there  was  one  from  the  chairman  of  my  committee,  saying 
he  was  coming  to  Marseilles  to  meet  our  steamer  and  would 
sail  the  rest  of  the  way  home  with  us. 

Indirectly  this  brought  me  a  certain  comfort.    It  reminded 


I  AM  LOST  479 

me  of  the  letter  I  had  written  for  my  dear  one  on  the  day  I 
left  Castle  Baa.  Sixteen  months  had  passed  since  then, 
serious  things  had  happened  in  the  interval,  and  I  had  never 
thought  of  that  letter  before. 

It  was  not  to  her  father,  as  she  supposed,  and  certainly 
not  to  her  husband.  It  was  to  my  chairman,  asking  him, 
in  the  event  of  my  darling  sending  it  on,  to  do  whatever 
was  necessary  to  protect  her  during  my  absence. 

If  my  chairman  had  not  received  that  letter,  my  conclusion 
would  be  that  my  dear  little  woman  had  never  been  reduced 
to  such  straits  as  to  require  help  from  any  one.  If  he  had 
in  fact  received  it,  he  must  have  done  what  I  wished,  and 
therefore  everything  would  be  well. 

There  was  a  certain  suspense  as  well  as  a  certain  consola- 
tion in  all  this,  and  before  our  big  ship  slowed  down  at 
Marseilles  I  was  on  deck  searching  for  my  chairman  among 
the  people  waiting  for  us  on  the  pier. 

I  saw  him  immediately,  waving  his  travelling  cap  with 
a  flourish  of  joy,  and  I  snatched  a  little  comfort  from 
that. 

As  soon  as  the  steamer  was  brought  to  he  was  the  first  to 
come  aboard,  and  I  scanned  his  face  as  he  hurried  up  the 
gangway.  It  was  beaming. 

"It's  all  right,"  I  thought;  "a  man  could  not  look  as 
happy  as  that  if  he  were  bringing  me  bad  news." 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  shaking  my  hand,  clapping 
me  on  the  shoulder,  and  saying: 

"Splendid!  Magnificent!  Glorious  achievement!  Proved 
your  point  up  to  the  hilt,  my  boy!" 

And  when  I  said  something  about  not  having  gone  all  the 
way  he  cried: 

"Never  mind!  You'll  do  it  next  tune,"  which  made  some 
of  my  shipmates  who  were  standing  round  with  shining  eyes 
say,  "Aye,  aye,  sir,"  and  then  one  of  them  (it  was  good  old 
0 'Sullivan)  shouted: 

"By  the  stars  of  heaven,  that's  thrue,  my  lord!  And  if 
anybody's  after  saying  that  the  Commanther  was  turned 
back  this  time  by  anything  less  than  the  almighty  power  of 
Nature  in  her  wrath,  you  may  say  there's  forty-eight  of  us 
here  to  tell  him  he  lies." 

"I  believe  it,"  said  the  chairman,  and  then  there  were 
further  congratulations,  with  messages  from  members  of  my 
committee,  but  never  a  word  from  my  dear  one. 


480  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

^Thinking  the  chairman  might  hesitate  to  speak  of  a  private 
matter  until  we  were  alone,  I  took  him  down  to  my  state- 
room. But  he  had  nothing  to  say  there,  either,  except  about 
articles  to  be  written,  reports  to  be  compiled,  and  invitations 
to  be  accepted. 

Several  hours  passed  like  this.  We  were  again  out  at  sea, 
and  my  longing  to  know  what  had  happened  was  consuming 
me,  but  I  dared  not  ask  from  fear  of  a  bad  answer. 

Before  the  night  was  out,  however,  I  had  gone  to  work  in 
a  roundabout  way.  Taking  0 'Sullivan  into  my  confidence, 
I  told  him  it  had  not  been  my  parents  that  I  had  been 
anxious  about  (God  forgive  me!),  but  somebody  else  whom 
he  had  seen  and  spoken  to. 

"Do  you  mean  Mai  ...    I  should  say  Lady    .    .    .  " 

"Yes." 

"By  the  holy  saints,  the  way  I  was  thinking  that  when  I 
brought  you  the  letter  at  Port  Said,  and  saw  the  clouds  of 
heaven  still  hanging  on  you." 

I  found  that  the  good  fellow  had  a  similar  trouble  of  his 
own  (not  yet  having  heard  from  his  mother),  so  he  fell 
readily  into  my  plan,  which  was  that  of  cross-questioning 
the  chairman  about  my  dear  one,  and  I  about  his,  and 
then  meeting  secretly  and  imparting  what  we  had  learned. 

Anybody  may  laugh  who  likes  at  the  thought  of  two  big 
lumbering  fellows  afraid  to  face  the  truth  (scouting  round 
and  round  it),  but  it  grips  me  by  the  throat  to  this  day  to 
see  myself  taking  our  chairman  into  a  quiet  corner  of  the 
smoke-room  and  saying : 

"Poor  old  O 'Sullivan!  He  hasn't  heard  from  his  old 
mother  yet.  She  was  sick  when  he  sailed,  and  wouldn't  have 
parted  with  him  to  go  with  anybody  except  myself.  You 
haven 't  heard  of  her,  have  you  ? ' ' 

And  then  to  think  of  0 'Sullivan  doing  the  same  for  me, 
with: 

"The  poor  Commanther!  Look  at  him  there.  Faith,  he's 
keeping  a  good  heart,  isn  't  he  ?  But  it 's  just  destroyed  he  is 
for  want  of  news  of  a  great  friend  that  was  in  trouble.  It 
was  a  girl  ...  a  lady,  I  mane.  You  haven't  heard  the 
whisper  of  a  word,  sir  .  .  .  eh?" 

Our  chairman  had  heard  nothing.  And  when  (bracing 
myself  at  last)  I  asked  point-blank  if  anything  had  been  sent 
to  him  as  from  me,  and  he  answered  "No,"  I  might  have 
been  relieved,  but  I  wasn't.  Though  I  did  not  know  then 


I  AM  LOST  481 

that  my  darling  had  burnt  my  letter,  I  began  to  feel  that 
she  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  use  it,  being  (God 
bless  her!)  of  the  mettle  that  makes  a  woman  want  to  fight 
her  own  battles  without  asking  help  of  any  one. 

This  quite  crushed  down  my  heart,  for,  seeing  that  she  had 
sent  no  reply  to  my  cables,  I  could  not  find  any  escape  from 
the  conclusion  that  she  was  where  no  word  could  come  from 
her — she  was  dead! 

Lord  God,  how  I  suffered  when  this  phantom  got  into  my 
mind!  I  used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  promenade  deck 
late  into  the  night,  trying  and  condemning  myself  as  if  I  had 
been  my  own  judge  and  jury. 

"She  is  dead.     I  have  killed  her,"  I  thought. 

Thank  God,  the  phantom  was  soon  laid  by  the  gladdest 
sight  I  ever  saw  on  earth  or  ever  expect  to  see,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  necessary  to  speak  of  it  now  but  for  the  glorious 
confidence  it  brought  me. 

It  was  the  same  with  me  as  with  a  ship-broken  man  whom 
Providence  comes  to  relieve  in  his  last  extremity,  and  I  could 
fix  the  place  of  mine  as  certainly  as  if  I  had  marked  it  on  a 
chart.  We  had  called  at  Gibraltar  (where  O 'Sullivan  had 
received  a  letter  from  his  mother,  saying  she  was  splendid) 
and  were  running  along  the  coast  of  Portugal. 

It  was  a  dirty  black  night,  with  intervals  of  rain,  I  remem- 
ber. While  my  shipmates  were  making  cheerful  times  of 
it  in  the  smoke-room  (0 'Sullivan  with  heart  at  ease  singing 
the  "Minsthrel  Boy"  to  a  chorus  of  noisy  cheers)  I  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  deck  with  my  little  stock  of  courage 
nearly  gone,  for  turn  which  way  I  would  it  was  dark,  dark, 
dark,  when  just  as  we  picked  up  the  lights  of  Finisterre 
something  said  to  me,  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak: 

"What  in  the  name  of  thunder  are  you  thinking  about? 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  were  turned  back  in  the  88th 
latitude,  and  have  been  hurried  home  without  the  loss  of 
a  moment,  only  to  find  everything  over  at  the  end  of  your 
journey?  No,  no,  no!  Your  poor,  dear,  heroic  little  woman 
is  alive !  She  may  be  in  danger,  and  beset  by  all  the  powers 
of  the  devil,  but  that's  just  why  you  have  been  brought 
home  to  save  her,  and  you  will  save  her,  as  surely  as  the  sun 
will  rise  to-morrow  morning." 

There  are  thoughts  which,  like  great  notes  in  music,  grip 
you  by  the  soul  and  lift  you  into  a  world  which  you  don't 
naturally  belong  to.  This  was  one  of  them. 

2H 


482  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Never  after  that  did  I  feel  one  moment's  real  anxiety. 
I  was  my  own  man  once  more;  and  though  I  continued  to 
walk  the  deck  while  our  good  ship  sped  along  in  the  night, 
it  was  only  because  there  was  a  kind  of  wild  harmony  between 
the  mighty  voice  of  the  rolling  billows  of  the  Bay  and 
the  unheard  anthem  of  boundless  hope  that  was  singing  in 
my  breast. 

I  recollect  that  during  my  walk  a  hymn  was  always  haunt- 
ing me.  It  was  the  same  that  we  used  to  sing  in  the  shud- 
dering darkness  of  that  perpetual  night,  when  we  stood  (fifty 
downhearted  men)  under  the  shelter  of  our  snow  camp, 
with  a  ninety  mile  blizzard  shrieking  above  us: 

"Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  th'  encircling  gloom, 
Lead  Thou  me  on." 

But  the  light  was  within  me  now,  and  I  knew  as  certainly 
as  that  the  good  ship  was  under  my  feet  that  I  was  being 
carried  home  at  the  call  of  the  Spirit  to  rescue  my  stricken 
darling. 

God  keep  her  on  her  solitary  way!  England!  England! 
England!  Less  than  a  week  and  I  should  be  there! 

That  was  early  hours  on  Saturday  morning — the  very 
Saturday  when  my  poor  little  woman,  after  she  had  been 
turned  away  by  those  prating  philanthropists,  was  being 
sheltered  by  the  prostitute. 

Let  him  explain  it  who  can.    I  cannot.  M.  C. 

[END  OP  MARTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRD  CHAPTER 

I  MUST  have  been  sitting  a  full  hour  or  more  on  the  end  of  my 
bed — stunned,  stupefied,  unable  to  think — when  Miriam,  back 
from  the  synagogue,  came  stealthily  upstairs  to  say  that  a 
messenger  had  come  for  me  about  six  o'clock  the  night 
before. 

"He  said  his  name  was  Oliver,  and  father  saw  him,  and 
that's  how  he  came  to  know.  'Tell  her  that  her  child  is  ill, 
and  she  is  to  come  immediately,'  he  said." 

I  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  happened  next — hardly 
aware  of  passing  through  the  streets  to  Ilford.  I  had  a  sense 
of  houses  flying  by  as  they  seem  to  do  from  an  express  train ; 
of  my  knees  trembling;  of  my  throat  tightening;  and  of  my 


I  AM  LOST  483 

whole  soul  crying  out  to  God  to  save  the  life  of  my  child  until 
I  could  get  to  her. 

"When  I  reached  the  house  of  the  Olivers  the  worst  of  my 
fears  were  relieved.  Mrs.  Oliver  was  sitting  before  the  fire 
with  baby  on  her  lap. 

At  sight  of  me  the  woman  began  to  mumble  out  something 
about  my  delay,  and  how  she  could  not  be  held  responsible  if 
anything  happened;  but  caring  nothing  about  responsibility, 
hers  or  mine,  I  took  baby  from  her  without  more  words. 

My  child  was  in  a  state  of  deep  drowsiness,  and  when  I  tried 
to  rouse  her  I  could  not  do  so.  I  gathered  that  this  condition 
had  lasted  twenty-four  hours,  during  which  she  had  taken  no 
nourishment,  with  the  result  that  she  was  now  very  thin. 

I  knew  nothing  of  children's  ailments  but  a  motherly 
instinct  must  have  come  to  my  aid,  for  I  called  for  a  bath,  and 
bathed  baby,  and  she  awoke,  and  then  took  a  little  food. 

But  again  she  dropped  back  into  the  drowsy  condition,  and 
Mrs.  Oliver,  who  was  alarmed,  called  in  some  of  the  neigh- 
bours to  look  at  her. 

Apparently  the  mission  of  the  good  women  was  to  com- 
fort Mrs.  Oliver,  not  me,  but  they  said,  "  Sleep  never  did 
no  harm  to  nobody,"  and  I  found  a  certain  consolation  in 
that. 

Hours  passed.  I  was  barely  sensible  of  anything  that 
happened  beyond  the  narrow  circle  of  my  own  lap,  but 
at  one  moment  I  heard  the  squirling  of  a  brass  band  that 
was  going  up  the  street,  with  the  shuffling  of  an  irregular 
procession. 

"It's  the  strike,"  said  Mrs.  Oliver,  running  to  the  window. 
"There's  Ted,  carrying  a  banner." 

A  little  later  I  heard  the  confused  noises  of  a  strike  meet- 
ing, which  was  being  held  on  the  Green.  It  was  like  the 
croaking  of  a  frog-pond,  with  now  and  then  a  strident  voice 
(the  bricklayer's)  crying  "Buckle  your  belts  tighter,  and 
starve  rather  than  give  in,  boys."  Still  later  I  heard  the 
procession  going  away,  singing  with  a  slashing  sound  that  was 
like  driving  wind  and  pelting  rain : 

"The  land,  the  land,  the  blessed,  Uessed  land, 
Gawd  gave  the  land  to  the  people." 

But  nothing  awakened  baby,  and  towards  three  in  the  after- 
noon (the  idea  that  she  was  really  ill  having  taken  complete 


484  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

V 

possession  of  me)    I  asked  where  I  could  find  the  nearest 
doctor,  and  being  told,  I  went  off  in  search  of  him. 

The  doctor  was  on  his  rounds,  so  I  left  a  written  message 
indicating  baby's  symptoms  and  begging  him  to  come  to  her 
immediately. 

On  the  way  back  I  passed  a  number  of  children 's  funerals — 
easily  recognisable  by  the  combined  coach  and  hearse,  the 
white  linen  "weepers"  worn  by  the  coachman  and  his  assist- 
ant, and  the  little  coffin,  sprinkled  with  cheap  flowers,  in 
the  glass  case  behind  the  driver's  seat.  These  sights,  which 
brought  back  a  memory  of  the  woman  who  carried  my 
baby  down  the  Mile  End  Road,  almost  deprived  me  of  my 
senses. 

I  had  hardly  got  back  and  taken  off  my  coat  and  warmed 
my  hands  and  dress  by  the  fire  before  taking  baby  in  my 
lap,  when  the  doctor,  in  his  gig,  pulled  up  at  the  door. 

He  was  a  young  man,  but  he  seemed  to  take  in  the  situation 
in  a  moment.  I  was  the  mother,  wasn't  I?  Yes.  And  this 
woman  was  baby's  nurse?  Yes. 

Then  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  looked  steadfastly  down 
at  baby,  and  I  went  through  that  breathless  moment,  which 
most  of  us  know,  when  we  are  waiting  for  the  doctor's  first 
word. 

"Some  acute  digestive  trouble  here  apparently,"  he  said, 
and  then  something  about  finding  out  the  cause  of  it. 

But  hardly  had  he  put  his  hands  on  my  child  as  she  lay  in 
my  lap  than  there  came  a  faintly  discoloured  vomit. 

"What  have  you  been  giving  her?"  he  said,  looking  round 
at  Mrs.  Oliver. 

Mrs.  Oliver  protested  that  she  had  given  baby  nothing 
except  her  milk,  but  the  doctor  said  sharply: 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  woman.  Show  me  what  you've 
given  her." 

Then  Mrs.  Oliver,  looking  frightened,  went  upstairs  and 
brought  down  a  bottle  of  medicine,  saying  it  was  a  soothing 
syrup  which  I  had  myself  bought  for  baby's  cough. 

"As  I  thought!"  said  the  doctor,  and  going  to  the  door 
and  opening  it,  he  flung  the  bottle  on  to  the  waste  ground 
opposite,  saying  as  he  did  so: 

"If  I  hear  of  you  giving  your  babies  any  more  of  your 
soothing  syrup  I  '11  see  what  the  Inspector  has  to  say. ' ' 

After  that,  ignoring  nurse,  he  asked  me  some  searching  and 
intimate  questions — if  I  had  had  a  great  -grief  or  shock  or 


I  AM  LOST  485 

worry  while  baby  was  coming,  and  whether  and  how  long  I 
had  nursed  her. 

I  answered  as  truthfully  as  I  could,  though  I  saw  the  drift 
of  his  inquiries,  and  was  trembling  with  fear  of  what  he 
would  tell  me  next, 

He  said  nothing  then,  however,  except  to  make  his  recom- 
mendations. And  remembering  my  loss  of  work,  my  heart 
sank  as  he  enumerated  baby's  needs — fresh  cow's  milk  diluted 
with  lime  water,  small  quantities  of  meat  juice,  and  twenty 
to  thirty  drops  of  the  best  brandy  three  or  four  tunes  a 
day. 

When  he  rose  to  go  I  paid  his  fee.  It  was  only  half-a- 
crown,  but  he  cannot  have  known  how  much  that  meant  to 
me,  for  as  he  was  leaving  the  kitchen  he  told  me  to  send  for 
him  again  in  the  morning  if  there  were  a  change  in  the 
symptoms. 

Peeling  that  I  did  not  yet  know  the  whole  truth  (though 
I  was  trembling  in  terror  of  it),  I  handed  baby  to  Mrs. 
Oliver  and  followed  the  doctor  to  the  door. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  "is  my  baby  very  ill?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  answered,  "Yes." 

"Dangerously  ill?" 

Again  he  hesitated,  and  then  looking  closely  at  me  (I  felt 
my  lower  lip  trembling)  he  said: 

"I  won't  say  that.  She's  suffering  from  marasmus,  pro- 
voked by  overdoses  of  the  pernicious  stuff  that  is  given  by 
ignorant  and  unscrupulous  people  to  a  restless  child  to  keep 
it  quiet.  But  her  real  trouble  comes  of  maternal  weakness, 
and  the  only  cure  for  that  is  good  nourishment  and  above  all 
fresh  air  and  sunshine." 

"Will  she  get  better?" 

"If  you  can  take  her  away  into  the  country  she  will, 
certainly. ' ' 

"And  if  ...  if  I  can't,"  I  asked,  the  words  fluttering 
up  to  my  lips,  "will  she  .  .  .  dief" 

The  doctor  looked  steadfastly  at  me  again  (I  was  biting  my 
lip  to  keep  it  firm),  and  said: 

"She  may." 

When  I  returned  to  the  kitchen  I  knew  that  I  was  face  to 
face  with  another  of  the  great  mysteries  of  a  woman's  life — 
Death — the  death  of  my  child,  which  my  very  love  and 
tenderness  had  exposed  her  to. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Oliver,  who  was  as  white  as  a  whitewashed 


486  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

wall,  was  excusing  herself  in  a  whining  voice  that  had  the 
sound  of  a  spent  wave.  She  wouldn  't  have  hurt  the  pore  dear 
precious  for  worlds,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Ted,  who  was 
so  tired  at  night  and  wanted  sleep  after  walking  in  per- 
cession  .  .  . 

Partly  to  get  rid  of  the  woman  I  sent  her  out  (with  almost 
the  last  of  my  money)  for  some  of  the  things  ordered  by  the 
doctor.  While  she  was  away,  and  I  was  looking  down  at  the 
little  silent  face  on  my  lap,  praying  for  one  more  glimpse  of 
my  Martin's  sea-blue  eyes,  the  bricklayer  came  lunging  into 
the  house. 

''Where's  Lizer?"  he  said. 
I  told  him  and  he  cried: 
"The  baiby  again!     Allus  the  baiby!" 
With  that  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  cake  of  moist  tobacco, 
cut  and  rolled  some  of  it  in  his  palm,  and  then  charged  his 
pipe  and  lit  it — filling  the  air  with  clouds  of  rank  smoke, 
which  made  baby  bark  and  cough  without  rousing  her. 
I  pointed  this  out  to  him  and  asked  him  not  to  smoke. 
"Eh?"  he  said,  and  then  I  told  him  that  the  doctor  had 
been  called  and  what  he  had  said  about  fresh  air. 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  he  said.    "Good!    Just  reminds  me 
of  something  I  want  to  say,  so  I  '11  introdooce  the  matter  now, 
in  a  manner  o'  speaking.    Last  night  I  'ad  to  go  to  Mile  End 
for  you,  and  here 's  Lizer  out  on  a  sim  'lar  arrand.    If  people 
'ave  got  to  be  'ospital  nurses  to  a  sick  baiby  they  ought  to  be 
paid,  mind  ye.    We  're  only  pore,  and  it  may  be  a  sacred  dooty 
walkin'  in  percession,  but  it  ain't  fillin'." 
Choking  with  anger,  I  said: 
"Put  out  your  pipe,  please." 
"Ma'am  to  youl" 

"  Put  it  out  this  moment,  sir,  or  I'll  see  if  I  can't  find 
somebody  to  make  you. ' ' 

The  bricklayer  laughed,  then  pointed  with  the  shank  of 
his  pipe  to  the  two  photographs  over  the  mantelpiece,  and 
said: 

"See  them?  Them's  me,  with  my  dooks  up.  If  any  friend 
o'  yourn  as  is  interested  in  the  baiby  comes  to  lay  a  'and 
on  me  I'll  see  if  I've  forgot  'ow  to  use  'em." 

I  felt  the  colour  shuddering  out  of  my  cheeks,  and  putting 
baby  into  the  cot  I  turned  on  the  man  and  cried : 

"You  scoundrel!  The  doctor  has  told  me  what  is  the 
immediate  cause  of  my  baby's  illness  and  your  wife  has  con- 


I  AM  LOST  487 

fessed  to  giving  overdoses  of  a  drug  at  your  direction.  If 
you  don't  leave  this  house  in  one  minute  I'll  go  straight  to 
the  police-station  and  charge  you  with  poisoning  my  child." 

The  bully  in  the  coward  was  cowed  in  a  moment. 

"Don't  get  'uffy,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I'm  the  peaceablest 
man  in  the  East  End,  and  if  I  mentioned  anything  about  a 
friend  o'  yourn  it  slipped  out  in  the  'eat  of  the  moment — 
see?" 

"Out  you  go!  Go!  Go!"  I  cried,  and,  incredible  as  it 
may  seem,  the  man  went  flying  before  my  face  as  if  I  had 
been  a  fury. 

It  would  be  a  long  tale  to  tell  of  what  happened  the  day 
following,  the  next  and  the  next  and  the  next — how  baby 
became  less  drowsy,  but  more  restless;  how  being  unable  to 
retain  her  food  she  grew  thinner  and  thinner;  how  I  wished 
to  send  for  the  doctor,  but  dared  not  do  so  from  fear  of  his 
fee;  how  the  little  money  I  had  left  was  barely  sufficient  to 
buy  the  food  and  stimulants  which  were  necessary  to  baby's 
cure :  how  I  sat  for  long  hours  with  my  little  lamb  on  my  lap 
straining  my  dry  eyes  into  her  face ;  and  how  I  cried  to  God 
for  the  life  of  my  child,  which  was  everything  I  had  or 
wanted. 

All  this  time  I  was  still  lodging  at  the  Jew's,  returning  to  it 
late  every  night,  and  leaving  it  early  in  the  morning,  but 
nothing  happened  there  that  seemed  to  me  of  the  smallest 
consequence.  One  day  Miriam,  looking  at  me  with  her  big 
black  eyes,  said: 

"You  must  take  more  rest,  dear,  or  you  will  make  yourself 
ill." 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  ill,"  I  answered,  and  then  remembering 
how  necessary  my  life  was  to  the  life  of  my  child,  I  said,  "I 
must  not  be  ill." 

At  last  on  the  Saturday  morning — I  know  now  it  must  have 
been  Saturday,  but  time  did  not  count  with  me  then — I  over- 
heard Mrs.  Abramovitch  pleading  for  me  with  her  husband, 
saying  they  knew  I  was  in  trouble  and  therefore  I  ought  to 
have  more  time  to  find  lodgings,  another  week — three  days  at 
all  events.  But  the  stern-natured  man  with  his  rigid  religion 
was  inexorable.  It  was  God's  will  that  I  should  be  punished, 
and  who  was  he  to  step  in  between  the  All-High  and  His  just 
retribution  ? 

"The  woman  is  displeasing  to  God,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
declared  that,  the  day  being  Sabbath  (the  two  tall  candle- 


488  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

sticks  and  the  Sabbath  loaves  must  have  been  under  his  eyes 
at  the  moment),  he  would  give  me  until  nine  o'clock  that 
night,  and  if  I  had  not  moved  out  by  that  time  he  would  put 
my  belongings  into  the  street. 

I  remember  that  the  Jew's  threat  made  no  impression  upon 
my  mind.  It  mattered  very  little  to  me  where  I  was  to  lodge 
next  week  or  what  roof  was  to  cover  me. 

When  I  reached  the  Olivers'  that  morning  I  found  baby 
distinctly  worse.  Even  the  brandy  would  not  stay  on  her 
stomach  and  hence  her  strength  was  plainly  diminishing.  I 
sat  for  some  time  looking  steadfastly  into  my  child 's  face,  and 
then  I  asked  myself,  as  millions  of  mothers  must  have  done 
before  me,  why  my  baby  should  suffer  so.  Why?  Why? 
Why? 

There  seemed  to  be  no  answer  to  that  question  except  one. 
Baby  was  suffering  because  I  was  poor.  If  I  had  not  been 
poor  I  could  have  taken  her  into  the  country  for  fresh  air 
and  sunshine,  where  she  would  have  recovered  as  the  doctor 
had  so  confidently  assured  me. 

And  why  was  I  poor?  I  was  poor  because  I  had  refused  to 
be  enslaved  by  my  father's  authority  when  it  was  vain  and 
wrong,  or  my  husband's  when  it  was  gross  and  cruel,  and 
because  I  had  obeyed  the  highest  that  was  in  me — the  call  of 
love. 

And  now  God  looked  down  on  the  sufferings  of  my  baby, 
who  was  being  killed  for  my  conduct — killed  by  my  poverty ! 

I  tremble  to  say  what  wild  impulses  came  at  that  thought. 
I  felt  that  if  my  baby  died  and  I  ever  stood  before  God  to  be 
judged  I  should  judge  Him  in  return.  I  should  ask  Him 
why,  if  He  were  Almighty,  He  permitted  the  evil  in  the  world 
to  triumph  over  the  good,  and  if  He  were  our  heavenly  Father 
why  He  allowed  innocent  children  to  suffer?  Was  there  any 
human  father  who  could  be  so  callous,  so  neglectful,  so  cruel, 
as  that? 

I  dare  say  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  bring  God  to  the  bar  of 
judgment,  to  be  judged  by  His  poor  weak  ignorant  creature; 
but  it  was  also  terrible  to  sit  with  a  dying  baby  on  my  lap 
(I  thought  mine  was  dying),  and  to  feel  that  there  was  noth- 
ing— not  one  thing — I  could  do  to  relieve  its  sufferings. 

My  faith  went  down  like  a  flood  during  the  heavy  hours  of 
that  day — all  that  I  had  been  taught  to  believe  about  God's 
goodness  and  the  marvellous  efficacy  of  the  Sacraments  of 
His  Church. 


I  AM  LOST  489 

I  thought  of  the  Sacrament  of  my  marriage,  which  the  Pope 
told  me  had  been  sanctioned  by  my  Redeemer  under  a  natural 
law  that  those  who  entered  into  it  might  live  together  in 
peace  and  love — and  then  of  my  husband  and  his  brutal  infi- 
delities. 

I  thought  of  the  Sacrament  of  my  baby's  baptism,  which 
was  to  exorcise  all  the  devils  out  of  my  child — and  then  of 
the  worst  devil  in  the  world,  poverty,  which  was  taking  her 
very  life. 

After  that  a  dark  shadow  crossed  my  soul,  and  I  told  myself 
that  since  God  was  doing  nothing,  since  He  was  allowing  my 
only  treasure  to  be  torn  away  from  me,  I  would  fight  for  my 
child's  life  as  any  animal  fights  for  her  young. 

By  this  time  a  new  kind  of  despair  had  taken  hold  of  me. 
It  was  no  longer  the  paralysing  despair  but  the  despair  that 
has  a  driving  force  in  it. 

"My  child  shall  not  die,"  I  thought.  "At  least  poverty 
shall  not  kill  her!" 

Many  times  during  the  day  I  had  heard  Mrs.  Oliver  trying 
to  comfort  me  with  various  forms  of  sloppy  sentiment.  Chil- 
dren were  a  great  trial,  they  were  allus  makin'  and  keepin' 
people  pore,  and  it  was  sometimes  better  for  the-  dears  theniv 
selves  to  be  in  their  'eavenly  Father's  boosim. 

I  hardly  listened.  It  was  the  same  as  if  somebody  were 
talking  to  me  in  my  sleep.  But  towards  nightfall  my  deaf 
ear  caught  something  about  myself — that  "it"  (I  knew  what 
that  meant)  might  be  better  for  me,  also,  for  then  I  should  be 
free  of  encumbrances  and  could  marry  again. 

"Of  course  you  could — you  so  young  and  good-lookin '. 
Only  the  other  day  the  person  at  number  five  could  tell  me  as 
you  were  the  prettiest  woman  as  comes  up  the  Row,  and  the 
Vicar's  wife  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  you.  'Fine  feathers 
makes  fine  birds,'  says  she:  'Give  your  young  lady  a  nice 
frock  and  a  bit  o'  colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  there  ain't  many 
as  could  best  her  in  the  "West  End  neither.'  ' 

As  the  woman  talked  dark  thoughts  took  possession  of  me. 
I  began  to  think  of  Angela.  I  tried  not  to,  but  I  could  not 
help  it. 

And  then  came  the  moment  of  my  fiercest  trial.  With  a 
sense  of  Death  hanging  over  my  child  I  told  myself  that  the 
only  way  to  drive  it  off  was  to  make  some  great  sacrifice. 

Hitherto  I  had  thought  of  everything  I  possessed  as  belong- 
ing to  baby,  but  now  I  felt  that  7  myself  belonged  to  her.  I 


490  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

had  brought  her  into  the  world,  and  it  was  my  duty  to  see 
that  she  did  not  suffer. 

All  this  time  the  inherited  instinct  of  my  religion  was 
fighting  hard  with  me,  and  I  was  saying  many  Hail  Marys 
to  prevent  myself  from  doing  what  I  meant  to  do. 

"Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace:  the  Lord  is  with  thee     .     .    ." 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  losing  my  reason.  But  it  was  of  no  use 
struggling  against  the  awful  impulse  of  self -sacrifice  (for  such 
I  thought  it)  which  had  taken  hold  of  my  mind,  and  at  last 
it  conquered  me. 

"I  must  get  money,"  I  thought.  "Unless  I  get  money 
my  child  will  die.  I — must — get — money." 

Towards  seven  o'clock  I  got  up,  gave  baby  to  Mrs.  Oliver, 
put  on  my  coat  and  fixed  with  nervous  fingers  my  hat  and 
hatpins. 

"Where  are  you  going  to,  pore  thing?"  asked  Mrs.  Oliver. 

"I  am  going  out.    I'll  be  back  in  the  morning,"  I  answered. 

And  then,  after  kneeling  and  kissing  my  baby  again — my 
sweet  child,  my  Isabel — I  tore  the  street  door  open,  and 
pulled  it  noisily  behind  me. 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FOURTH  CHAPTER 

ON  reaching  the  front  street,  I  may  have  taken  the  penny 
tram,  for  though  I  had  a  sense  of  growing  blind  and  deaf  I 
have  vague  memories  of  lights  flashing  past  me  and  of  the 
clanging  of  electric  cars. 

At  Bow  Church  I  must  have  got  out  (probably  to  save  a 
further  fare)  because  I  recollect  walking  along  the  Bow  Road 
between  the  lights  in  the  shops  and  the  coarse  flares  from 
the  stalls  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  where  women  with 
baskets  on  their  arms  were  doing  their  Saturday  night's 
shopping. 

My  heart  was  still  strong  (sharpened  indeed  into  poign- 
ancy) and  I  know  I  was  not  crying,  for  at  one  moment  as  I 
passed  the  mirror  in  a  chemist's  window  I  caught  sight  of 
my  face  and  it  was  fierce  as  flame. 

At  another  moment,  while  I  was  hurrying  along,  I  collided 
with  a  drunken  woman  who  was  coming  out  of  a  public- 
house  with  her  arm  about  the  neck  of  a  drunken  sailor. 

"Gawd!    Here's  the  Verging  Mary  agine!"  she  cried. 


I  AM  LOST  491 

It  was  the  woman  who  had  carried  baby,  and  when  I  tried 
to  hurry  past  her  she  said : 

"You  think  I'm  drunk,  don't  you,  dear?  So 'am.  Don't 
you  never  get  drunk?  No?  What  a  bleedin'  fool  you  are! 
"Want  to  get  out  o'  this  'ere  'ole?  Tike  my  tip  then — gettin' 
drunk's  on'y  way  out  of  it." 

Farther  on  I  had  to  steer  my  way  through  jostling  compa- 
nies of  young  people  of  both  sexes  who  were  going  (I  thought) 
the  same  way  as  the  woman — girls  out  of  the  factories  with, 
their  free  walk,  and  their  boisterous  "fellers"  from  the 
breweries. 

It  was  a  cold  and  savage  night.  As  I  approached  the  side 
street  in  which  I  lived  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  arc  lamps  a 
small  group  of  people,  a  shivering  straggle  of  audience,  with 
the  hunched-up  shoulders  of  beings  thinly  clad  and  badly  fed, 
standing  in  stupid  silence  at  the  corner  while  two  persons 
wearing  blue  uniforms  (a  man  in  a  peaked  cap  and  a  young 
woman  in  a  poke  bonnet)  sang  a  Salvation  hymn  of  which  the 
refrain  was  ' '  It  is  well,  it  is  well  with  my  soul. ' ' 

The  door  of  the  Jew's  house  was  shut  (for  the  first  time  in 
my  experience),  so  I  had  to  knock  and  wait,  and  while  I 
waited  I  could  not  help  but  hear  the  young  woman  in  the  poke 
bonnet  pray. 

Her  prayer  was  about  "raising  the  standard  of  Calvary," 
and  making  the  drunkards  and  harlots  of  the  East  End  into 
"seekers"  and  "soul  yielders"  and  "prisoners  of  the  King 
of  Kings." 

Before  the  last  words  of  the  prayer  were  finished  the  man 
in  the  peaked  cap  tossed  up  his  voice  in  another  hymn,  and 
the  young  woman  joined  him  with  an  accordion  : 

"Shall  we  gather  at  the  river, 
Where  bright  angel  feet  have  trod.     .     .     ." 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  Jew  himself,  who,  assuming  a 
severe  manner,  said  something  to  me  in  his  guttural  voice 
which  I  did  not  hear  or  heed,  for  I  pushed  past  him  and 
walked  firmly  upstairs. 

When  I  had  reached  my  room  and  lit  the  gas,  I  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  as  if  I  were  preparing  to  commit  a  crime — 
and  perhaps  I  was. 

I  did  not  allow  myself  to  think  of  what  I  intended  to  do 
that  night,  but  I  knew  quite  well,  and  when  at  one  moment 


492  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

my  conscience  pressed  me  hard  something  cried  out  in  my 
heart : 

"Who  can  blame  me  since  my  child's  life  is  in  danger?" 

I  opened  my  trunk  and  took  out  my  clothes — all  that 
remained  of  the  dresses  I  had  brought  from  Elian.  They 
were  few,  and  more  than  a  little  out  of  fashion,  but  one  of 
them,  though  far  from  gay,  was  bright  and  stylish — a  light 
blue  frock  with  a  high  collar  and  some  white  lace  over  the 
bosom. 

I  remember  wondering  why  I  had  not  thought  of  pawning 
it  during  the  week,  when  I  had  had  so  much  need  of  money, 
and  then  being  glad  that  I  had  not  done  so. 

It  was  thin  and  light,  being  the  dress  I  had  worn  on  the.day 
I  first  came  to  the  East  End,  carrying  my  baby  to  Ilford, 
when  the  weather  was  warm  which  now  was  cold ;  but  I  paid 
no  heed  to  that,  thinking  only  that  it  was  my  best  and  most 
attractive. 

After  I  had  put  it  on  and  glanced  at  myself  in  my  little 
swinging  looking-glass  I  was  pleased,  but  I  saw  at  the  same 
time  that  my  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  that  made  me  think 
of  some  bottles  and  cardboard  boxes  which  lay  in  the  pockets 
of  my  trunk. 

I  knew  what  they  contained — the  remains  of  the  cosmetics 
which  I  had  bought  in  Cairo  in  the  foolish  days  when  I  was 
trying  to  make  my  husband  love  me.  Never  since  then  had  I 
looked  at  them,  but  now  I  took  them  out  (with  a  hare's  foot 
and  some  pads  and  brushes)  and  began  to  paint  my  pale  face 
— reddening  my  cracked  and  colourless  lips  and  powdering 
out  the  dark  rings  under  my  eyes. 

While  I  was  doing  this  I  heard  (though  I  was  trying  not 
to)  the  deadened  sound  of  the  singing  in  the  front  street, 
with  the  young  woman's  treble  voice  above  the  man's  bass 
and  the  wheezing  of  the  accordion: 

"Yes,  we'll  gather  at  the  river, 

Where  bright  angel  feet  have  trod, 
With  its  crystal  tide  for  ever 
Flowing  by  the  throne  of  God." 

The  Dark  Spirit  must  have  taken  possession  of  me  by  this 
time,  poor  vessel  of  conflicting  passions  as  I  was,  for  I  remem- 
ber that  while  I  listened  I  laughed — thinking  what  mockery 
it  was  to  sing  of  "angel  feet  and  "crystal  tides"  to  those 


I  AM  LOST  493 

shivering  wretches  at  the  corner  of  the  London  street  in  the 
smoky  night  air. 

"What  a  farce!"  I  thought.     "What  a  heartless  farce!" 

Then  I  put  on  my  hat,  which  was  also  not  very  gay,  and 
taking  out  of  my  trunk  a  pair  of  long  light  gloves  which  I 
had  never  worn  since  I  left  Elian,  I  began  to  pull  them 
on. 

I  was  standing  before  the  looking-glass  in  the  act  of  doing 
this,  and  trying  (God  pity  me!)  to  smile  at  myself,  when  I 
was  suddenly  smitten  by  a  new  thought. 

I  was  about  to  commit  suicide — the  worst  kind  of  suicide, 
not  the  suicide  which  is  followed  by  oblivion,  but  by  a  life  on 
earth  after  death! 

After  that  night  Mary  O'Neill  would  no  longer  exist!  I 
should  never  be  able  to  think  of  her  again!  I  should  have 
killed  her  and  buried  her  and  stamped  the  earth  down  on  her 
and  she  would  be  gone  from  me  for  ever! 

That  made  a  grip  at  my  heart — awakening  memories  of 
happy  days  in  my  childhood,  bringing  back  the  wild  bliss  of 
the  short  period  of  my  great  love,  and  even  making  me  think 
of  my  life  in  Rome,  with  its  confessions,  its  masses,  and  the 
sweetness  of  its  church  bells. 

I  was  saying  farewell  to  Mary  0  'Neill !  And  parting  with 
oneself  seemed  so  terrible  that  when  I  thought  of  it  my  heart 
seemed  ready  to  burst. 

"But  who  can  blame  me  when  my  child's  life  is  in 
danger?"  I  asked  myself  again,  still  tugging  at  my  long 
gloves. 

By  the  time  I  had  finished  dressing  the  Salvationists  were 
going  off  to  their  barracks  with  their  followers  behind  them. 
Under  the  singing  I  could  faintly  hear  the  shuffling  of  bad 
shoes,  which  made  a  sound  like  the  wash  of  an  ebbing  tide 
over  the  teeth  of  a  rocky  beach — up  our  side  street,  past  the 
Women's  Night  Shelter  (where  the  beds  never  had  time  to 
become  cool),  and  beyond  the  public-house  with  the  placard 
in  the  window  saying  the  ale  sold  there  could  be  guaranteed 
to  make  anybody  drunk  for  fourpence. 

"We'll  stand  the  storm,  it  won't  be  long, 

And  we'll  anchor  in  the  sweet  by-and-by." 

I  listened  and  tried  to  laugh  again,  but  I  could  not  do 
so  now.  There  was  one  last  spasm  of  my  cruelly  palpitating 


494  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

heart,  in  which  I  covered  my  face  with  both  hands,  and 
cried : 

"For  baby's  sake!    For  my  baby's  sake!" 

And  then  I  opened  my  bedroom  door,  walked  boldly  down- 
stairs and  went  out  into  the  streets. 

MEMORANDUM  BY  MARTIN  CONRAD 

I  don't  call  it  Chance  that  this  was  the  very  day  of  my 
return  to  England. 

If  I  had  to  believe  that,  I  should  have  to  disbelieve  half  of 
what  is  best  in  the  human  story,  and  the  whole  of  what  we 
are  taught  about  a  guiding  Providence  and  the  spiritual 
influences  which  we  cannot  reason  about  and  prove. 

We  were  two  days  late  arriving,  having  made  dirty  weather 
of  it  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  which  injured  our  propeller  and 
compelled  us  to  lie  to,  so  I  will  not  say  that  the  sense  of 
certainty  which  came  to  me  off  Finisterre  did  not  suffer  a 
certain  shock. 

In  fact  the  pangs  of  uncertainty  grew  so  strongly  upon  me 
as  we  neared  home  that  in  the  middle  of  the  last  night  of  our 
voyage  I  went  to  0 'Sullivan's  cabin,  and  sat  on  the  side  of 
his  bunk  for  hours,  talking  of  the  chances  of  my  darling 
being  lost  and  of  the  possibility  of  finding  her. 

0 'Sullivan,  God  bless  him,  was  " certain  sure"  that  every- 
thing would  be  right,  and  he  tried  to  take  things  gaily. 

"The  way  I'm  knowing  she'll  be  at  Southampton  in  a 
new  hat  and  feather!  So  mind  yer  oi,  Commanther. " 

We  passed  the  Channel  Islands  in  the  spring  of  morning, 
and  at  breakfast-time  we  picked  up  the  pilot,  who  had 
brought  out  a  group  of  reporters.  I  did  my  best  for  the 
good  chaps  (though  it  is  mighty  hard  to  talk  about  exploring 
when  you  are  thinking  of  another  subject),  and  then  handed 
them  over  to  my  shipmates. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  at  night  we  heaved  up  to  the  grey 
stone  pier  at  the  head  of  Southampton  Water.  It  was  then 
dark,  so  being  unable  to  see  more  than  the  black  forms  and 
waving  hands  of  the  crowd  waiting  for  us  with  the  lights 
behind  them,  I  arranged  with  O 'Sullivan  that  he  should  slip 
ashore  as  soon  as  we  got  alongside,  and  see  if  he  could  find 
my  dear  one. 

"Will  you  remember  her  face?"  I  asked. 


I  AM  LOST  495 

"And  why  wouldn't  I?  By  the  stars  of  God,  there's  only 
one  of  it  in  the  world,"  he  answered. 

The  welcome  we  got  when  we  were  brought  to  was  enough 
to  make  a  vain  man  proud,  and  a  modest  one  ashamed,  and 
perhaps  I  should  have  had  a  little  of  both  feelings  if  the 
right  woman  had  been  there  to  share  them. 

My  state-room  was  on  the  promenade  deck,  and  I  stood  at 
the  door  of  it  as  long  as  I  dared,  raising  my  cap  at  the  call  of 
my  name,  but  feeling  as  if  I  were  the  loneliest  man  in  the 
world,  God  help  me ! 

0  'Sullivan  had  not  returned  when  Treacle  came  to  say  that 
everything  was  ready,  and  it  was  time  to  go  ashore. 

1  will  not  say  that  I  was  not  happy  to  be  home ;  I  will  not 
pretend  that  the  warm-hearted  welcome  did  not  touch  me; 
but  God  knows  there  was  a  moment  when,  for  want  of  a  face  I 
did  not  see,  I  could  have  turned  about  and  gone  back  to 
the  South  Pole  there  and  then,  without  an  instant's  hesitation. 

"When  I  got  ashore  I  had  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  stand 
four-square  to  the  storm  of  hand-shaking  that  fell  on  me. 
And  perhaps  if  I  had  been  in  better  trim  I  should  have  found 
lots  of  fun  in  the  boyish  delight  of  my  shipmates  in  being 
back,  with  old  Treacle  shaking  hands  with  everybody  from 
the  Mayor  of  the  town  to  the  messenger-boys  (crying  "What 
cheer,  matey?"),  while  the  scientific  staff  were  bringing  up 
their  wives  to  be  introduced  to  me,  just  as  the  lower-form 
fellows  used  to  do  with  their  big  sisters  at  school. 

At  last  O 'Sullivan  came  back  with  a  long  face  to  say  he 
could  see  nothing  of  my  dear  one,  and  then  I  braced  myself 
and  said: 

"Never  mind!  She'll  be  waiting  for  us  in  London 
perhaps. ' ' 

It  took  a  shocking  time  to  pass  through  the  Customs,  but 
we  got  off  at  last  in  a  special  train  commissioned  by  our 
chairman — half  of  our  company  with  their  wives  and  a  gootf 
many  reporters  having  crammed  themselves  into  the  big 
saloon  carriage  reserved  for  me. 

At  the  last  moment  somebody  threw  a  sheaf  of  evening 
papers  through  my  window,  and  as  soon  as  we  were  well 
away  I  took  up  one  of  them  and  tried  to  read  it,  but  column 
after  column  fell  blank  on  my  eyes,  for  my  mind  was  full  of 
other  matters. 

The  talk  in  the  carriage,  too,  did  not  interest  me  in  the 
least.  It  was  about  the  big,  bustling,  resonant  world,  general 


496 

elections,  the  fall  of  ministries,  Acts  of  Parliament,  and  the 
Lord  knows  what — things  that  had  looked  important  when 
we  were  in  the  dumb  solitude  of  Winter  Quarters,  but  seemed 
to  be  of  no  account  now  when  I  was  hungering  for  something 
else. 

At  last  I  got  a  quiet  pressman  in  a  corner  and  questioned 
him  about  Elian. 

"That's  mv  native  island,  you  know — anything  going  on 
there?" 

The  reporter  said  yes,  there  was  some  commotion  about 
the  failure  of  banks,  with  the  whole  island  under  a  cloud,  and 
its  biggest  financial  man  gone  smash. 

"Is  his  name  O'Neill?"  I  asked. 

"That 'sit." 

"Anything  else  happened  there  while  I've  been  away?" 

"No  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  well,  now  that  I  think  of  it, 
there  was  a  big  scare  a  year  or  so  ago  about  a  young  peeress 
who  disappeared  mysteriously." 

"Was    .     .     .    was  it  Lady  Raa?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  reporter,  and  then  (controlling  myself  as 
well  as  I  could)  I  listened  to  a  rapid  version  of  what  had 
become  known  about  my  dear  one  down  to  the  moment 
when  she  "vanished  as  utterly  as  if  she  had  been  dropped 
into  the  middle  of  the  Irish  Sea." 

It  is  of  no  use  saying  what  I  felt  after  that,  except  that 
flying  in  an  express  train  to  London,  I  was  as  impatient  of 
space  and  time  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  ship  down  south  stuck 
fast  in  the  rigid  besetment  of  the  ice. 

I  could  not  talk,  and  I  dared  not  think,  so  I  shouted  for  a 
sing-song,  and  my  shipmates  (who  had  been  a  little  low  at 
seeing  me  so  silent)  jumped  at  the  proposal  like  schoolboys 
let  loose  from  school. 

Of  course  0 'Sullivan  gave  us  "The  Minsthrel  Boy";  and 
Treacle  sang  "Yew  are  the  enny";  and  then  I,  yes  I  (Oh, 
God!),  sang  "Sally's  the  gel,"  and  every  man  of  my  com- 
pany joined  in  the  ridiculous  chorus. 

Towards  ten  o'clock  we  changed  lines  on  the  loop  at 
Waterloo  and  ran  into  Charing  Cross,  where  we  found  another 
and  still  bigger  crowd  of  hearty  people  behind  a  barrier,  with 
a  group  of  my  committee,  my  fellow  explorers,  and  geogra- 
phers in  general,  waiting  on  the  platform. 

I  could  not  help  it  if  I  made  a  poor  return  to  their  warm- 
hearted congratulations,  for  my  eyes  were  once  more  searching 


I  AM  LOST  497 

for  a  face  I  could  not  see,  so  that  I  was  glad  and  relieved 
when  I  heard  the  superintendent  say  that  the  motor-car  that 
was  to  take  me  to  the  hotel  was  ready  and  waiting. 

But  just  then  O 'Sullivan  came  up  and  whispered  that  a 
priest  and  a  nun  were  asking  to  speak  to  me,  and  he  believed 
they  had  news  of  Mary. 

The  priest  proved  to  be  dear  old  Father  Dan,  and  the  nun 
to  be  Sister  Veronica,  whom  my  dear  one  calls  Mildred.  At 
the  first  sight  of  their  sad-joyful  faces  something  gripped  me 
by  the  throat,  for  I  knew  what  they  had  come  to  say  before 
they  said  it — that  my  darling  was  lost,  and  Father  Dan 
(after  some  priestly  qualms)  had  concluded  that  I  was  the 
first  man  who  ought  to  be  told  of  it. 

Although  this  was  exactly  what  I  had  expected,  it  fell  on 
me  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  in  spite  of  the  warmth  of  my 
welcome  home,  I  believe  in  my  soul  I  was  the  most  down- 
hearted man  alive. 

Nevertheless  I  bundled  Father  Dan  and  the  Sister  and 
0 'Sullivan  into  the  automobile,  and  jumping  in  after  them, 
told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  like  the  deuce  to  the  hotel. 

He  could  not  do  that,  though,  for  the  crowd  in  the  station- 
yard  surrounded  the  car  and  shouted  for  a  speech.  I  gave 
them  one,  saying  heaven  knows  what,  except  that  their  wel- 
come made  me  ashamed  of  not  having  got  down  to  the  Pole, 
but  please  God  I  should  get  there  next  time  or  leave  my  bones 
on  the  way. 

We  got  to  the  hotel  at  last  (the  same  that  my  poor  stricken 
darling  had  stayed  at  after  her  honeymoon),  and  as  soon  as 
we  reached  my  room  I  locked  the  door  and  said: 

"Now  out  with  it.    And  please  tell  me  everything." 

Father  Dan  was  the  first  to  speak,  but  his  pulpit  style  was 
too  slow  for  me  in  my  present  stress  of  thoughts  and  feelings. 
He  had  hardly  got  further  than  his  difference  with  his 
Bishop,  and  the  oath  he  had  sworn  by  Him  who  died  for  us 
to  come  to  London  and  never  go  back  until  he  had  found  my 
darling,  when  I  shook  his  old  hand  and  looked  towards  the 
Sister. 

She  was  quicker  by  a  good  deal,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I 
knew  something  of  my  dear  one's  story — how  she  had  fled 
from  home  on  my  account,  and  for  my  sake  had  become  poor ; 
how  she  had  lodged  for  a  while  in  Bloomsbury ;  how  hard  she 
had  been  hit  by  the  report  of  the  loss  of  my  ship ;  and  how 
(Oh  my  poor,  suffering,  heroic,  little  woman!)  she  had  dis- 

21 


498  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

appeared  on  the  approach  of  another  event  of  still  more 
serious  consequence. 

It  was  no  time  for  modesty,  not  from  me  at  all  events,  so 
while  the  Father's  head  was  down,  I  asked  plainly  if  there 
was  a  child,  and  was  told  there  was,  and  the  fear  of  having 
it  taken  from  her  (I  could  understand  that)  was  perhaps 
the  reason  my  poor  darling  had  hidden  herself  away. 

"And  now,  when,  where,  and  by  whom  was  she  seen  last?" 
I  asked. 

"Last  week,  and  again  to-day,  to-night,  here  in  the  West 
End — by  a  fallen  woman,"  answered  the  Sister. 

"And  what  conclusion  do  you  draw  from  that?" 

The  Sister  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  said: 

"That  her  child  is  dead;  that  she  does  not  know  you  are 
alive;  and  that  she  is  throwing  herself  away,  thinking  there 
is  nothing  left  to  live  for." 

"What?"  I  cried.  "You  believe  that?  Because  she  left 
that  brute  of  a  husband  .  .  .  and  because  she  came  to 
me  .  .  .  you  believe  that  she  could  .  .  .  Never!  Not 
Mary  O'Neill!  She  would  beg  her  bread,  or  die  in  the 
streets  first." 

I  dare  say  my  thickening  voice  was  betraying  me ;  but  when 
I  looked  at  Mildred  and  saw  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks 
and  heard  her  excuses  (it  was  "what  hundreds  of  poor  women 
were  driven  to  every  day"),  I  was  ashamed  and  said  so,  and 
she  put  her  kind  hand  in  my  hand  in  token  of  her  forgive- 
ness. 

"But  what's  to  be  done  now?"  she  asked. 

O  'Sullivan  was  for  sending  for  the  police,  but  I  would  not 
hear  of  that.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  as  I  used  to  do  when 
I  lost  a  comrade  in  a  blizzard  down  south,  and  (without  a 
fact  or  a  clue  to  guide  me)  sent  a  score  of  men  in  a  broad 
circle  from  the  camp  (like  spokes  in  a  wheel)  to  find  him  or 
follow  back  on  their  tracks. 

There  were  only  four  of  us,  but  I  mapped  out  our  courses, 
where  we  were  to  go,  when  we  were  to  return,  and  what  we 
were  to  do  if  any  of  us  found  my  lost  one — take  her  to 
Sister's  flat,  which  she  gave  the  address  of. 

It  was  half-past  eleven  when  we  started  on  our  search, 
and  I  dare  say  our  good  old  Father  Dan,  after  his  fruitless 
journeys,  thought  it  a  hopeless  quest.  But  I  had  found 
myself  at  last.  My  spirits  which  had  been  down  to  zero  had 
gone  up  with  a  bound.  I  had  no  ghost  of  an  idea  that  I  had 


I  AM  LOST  499 

been  called  home  from  the  88th  latitude  for  nothing.  And  I 
had  no  fear  that  I  had  come  too  late. 

Call  it  frenzy  if  you  like — I  don't  much  mind  what  people 
call  it.  But  I  was  as  sure  as  I  have  ever  been  of  anything  in 
this  life,  or  ever  expect  to  be,  that  the  sufferings  of  my  poor 
martyred  darling  were  at  an  end,  and  that  within  an  hour  I 
should  be  holding  her  in  my  arms.  M.  C. 

[END  OF  MABTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTH  CHAPTER 

THERE  must  be  a  physical  power  in  fierce  emotion  to  deprive 
us  of  the  use  of  our  senses  of  hearing  and  even  of  sight,  for 
my  memory  of  what  happened  after  I  left  the  Jew's  has 
blank  places  in  it. 

Trying  to  recall  the  incidents  of  that  night  is  like  travelling 
on  a  moorland  road  under  a  flying  moon,  with  sometimes  the 
whitest  light  in  which  everything  is  clearly  seen,  and  then  the 
blackest  darkness. 

I  remember  taking  the  electric  car  going  west,  and  seeing 
the  Whitechapel  Road  shooting  by  me,  with  its  surging 
crowds  of  pedestrians,  its  public-houses,  its  Cinema  shows,  and 
its  Jewish  theatres. 

I  remember  getting  down  at  Aldgate  Pump,  and  walking 
through  that  dead  belt  of  the  City,  which,  lying  between 
east  and  west,  is  alive  like  a  beehive  by  day  and  silent  and 
deserted  by  night. 

I  remember  seeing  an  old  man,  with  a  face  like  a  rat's, 
picking  up  cigar-ends  from  the  gutters  before  the  dark  Banks, 
and  then  a  flock  of  sheep  bleating  before  a  barking  dog  as 
they  were  driven  through  the  echoing  streets  from  the  river- 
side towards  the  slaughter-houses  near  Smithfield  Market. 

I  remember  that  when  I  came  to  St.  Paul's  the  precincts 
of  the  cathedral  were  very  quiet  and  the  big  clock  was 
striking  nine.  But  on  Ludgate  Hill  the  traffic  was  thick, 
and  when  I  reached  Fleet  Street  crowds  of  people  were  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  newspaper  offices,  reading  large  placards 
in  written  characters  which  were  pasted  on  the  windows. 

I  remember  that  I  did  not  look  at  these  placards,  thinking 
their  news  was  nothing  to  me,  who  had  not  seen  a  news- 
paper for  months  and  for  whom  the  world  was  now  eclipsed!, 
but  that  as  I  stepped  round  one  of  the  crowds,  which  ex- 
tended to  the  middle  of  the  street,  somebody  said: 


500  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"He  has  landed  at  Southampton,  it  seems." 

I  remember  that  when  I  reached  Charing  Cross  I  found 
myself  on  the  fringe  of  another  and  much  larger  crowd,  and 
that  the  people,  who  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  somebody  and 
were  chatting  with  a  noise  like  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot,  were  saying: 

"His  train  is  fifty  minutes  late,  so  we've  half  an  hour  to 
wait  yet." 

Then  I  remember  that  walking  at  random  round  St. 
Martin's  Church  into  Leicester  Square  I  came  upon  three 
"public  women"  who  were  swinging  along  with  a  high  step 
and  laughing  loudly,  and  that  one  of  them  was  Angela,  and 
that  she  stopped  on  seeing  me  and  cried : 

"Hello!  Here  I  am  again,  you  see!  Giovanni's  dead, 
and  I  don't  care  a  damn!" 

I  remember  that  she  said  something  else — it  was  about 
Sister  Mildred,  but  my  mind  did  not  take  it  in — and  at  the 
next  moment  she  left  me,  and  I  heard  her  laughter  once  more 
as  she  swept  round  the  corner. 

I  hardly  know  what  happened  next,  for  here  comes  one  of 
the  blank  places  in  my  memory,  with  nothing  to  light  it 
except  vague  thoughts  of  Martin  (and  that  soulless  night  in 
Bloomsbury  when  the  newspapers  announced  that  he  was 
lost),  until,  wandering  aimlessly  through  streets  and  streets 
of  people — such  multitudes  of  people,  no  end  of  people — I 
found  myself  back  at  Charing  Cross. 

The  waiting  crowd  was  now  larger  and  more  excited  than 
before,  and  the  traffic  at  both  sides  of  the  station  was 
stopped. 

"He's  coming!  He's  coming!  Here  he  is!"  the  people 
cried,  and  then  there  were  deafening  shouts  and  cheers. 

I  recall  the  sight  of  a  line  of  policemen  pushing  people 
back  (I  was  myself  pushed  back) ;  I  recall  the  sight  of  a  big 
motor  car  containing  three  men  and  a  woman,  ploughing 
its  way  through;  I  recall  the  sight  of  one  of  the  men  raising 
his  cap;  of  the  crowd  rushing  to  shake  hands  with  him; 
then  of  the  car  swinging  away,  and  of  the  people  running 
after  it  with  a  noise  like  that  of  the  racing  of  a  noisy  river. 

It  is  the  literal  truth  that  never  once  did  I  ask  myself 
\irhat  this  tumult  was  about,  and  that  for  some  time  after 
it  was  over — a  full  hour  at  least — I  had  a  sense  of  walking 
in  my  sleep,  as  if  my  body  were  passing  through  the  streets 


I  AM  LOST  501 

of  the  West  End  of  London  while  my  soul  was  somewhere 
else  altogether. 

Thus  at  one  moment,  as  I  was  going  by  the  National  Gal- 
lery and  thought  I  caught  the  sound  of  Martin's  name,  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  back  in  Glen  Raa,  and  it  was  I  myself 
who  had  been  calling  it. 

At  another  moment,  when  I  was  standing  at  the  edge  of 
the  pavement  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  which  was  ablaze  with 
electric  light  and  thronged  with  people  (for  the  theatres  and 
music-halls  were  emptying,  men  in  uniform  were  running 
about  with  whistles,  policemen  were  directing  the  traffic, 
and  streams  of  carriages  were  flowing  by) ,  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
back  in  my  native  island,  where  I  was  alone  on  the  dark 
shore  while  the  sea  was  smiting  me. 

Again,  after  a  brusque  voice  had  said,  "Move  on,  please," 
I  followed  the  current  of  pedestrians  down  Piccadilly — it 
must  have  been  Piccadilly — and  saw  lines  of  "public  women," 
chiefly  French  and  Belgian,  sauntering  along,  and  heard 
men  throwing  light  words  to  them  as  they  went  by,  I  was 
thinking  of  the  bleating  sheep  and  the  barking  dog. 

And  again,  when  I  was  passing  a  men's  club  and  the  place 
where  I  had  met  Angela,  my  dazed  mind  was  harking  back 
to  Ilford  (with  a  frightened  sense  of  the  length  of  time  since 
I  had  been  there — "Good  heavens,  it  must  be  five  hours  at 
least!"),  and  wondering  if  Mrs.  Oliver  was  giving  baby  her 
drops  of  brandy  and  her  spoonfuls  of  diluted  milk. 

But  somewhere  about  midnight  my  soul  seemed  to  take  full 
possession  of  my  body,  and  I  saw  things  clearly  and  sharply 
as  I  turned  out  of  Oxford  Street  into  Regent  Street. 

The  traffic  was  then  rapidly  dying  down,  the  streets  were 
darker,  the  cafes  were  closing,  men  and  women  were  coming 
out  of  supper  rooms,  smoking  cigarettes,  getting  into  taxis 
and  driving  away;  and  another  London  day  was  passing 
into  another  night. 

People  spoke  to  me.  I  made  no  answer.  At  one  moment 
an  elderly  woman  said  something  to  which  I  replied,  "No, 
no,"  and  hurried  on.  At  another  moment,  a  foreign-looking 
man  addressed  me,  and  I  pushed  past  without  replying.  Then 
a  string  of  noisy  young  fellows,  stretching  across  the  broad 
pavement  arm-in-arm,  encircled  me  and  cried: 

"Here  we  are,  my  dear.    Let's  have  a  kissing-bee. " 

But  with  angry  words  and  gestures  I  compelled  them  to  let 


502  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

me  go,  whereupon  one    of    the    foreign    women  who  were 
sauntering  by  said  derisively: 

"What  does  she  think  she's  out  for,  I  wonder?" 

At  length  I  found  myself  standing  under  a  kind  of  loggia 
at  the  corner  of  Piccadilly  Circus,  which  was  now  half -dark, 
the  theatres  and  music-halls  being  closed,  and  only  one  group 
of  arc  lamps  burning  on  an  island  about  a  statue. 

There  were  few  people  now  where  there  had  been  so  dense 
a  crowd  awhile  ago ;  policemen  were  tramping  leisurely  along ; 
horse-cabs  were  going  at  walking  pace,  and  taxis  were  mov- 
ing slowly;  but  a  few  gentlemen  (walking  home  from  their 
clubs  apparently)  were  passing  at  intervals,  often  looking 
at  me,  and  sometimes  speaking  as  they  went  by. 

Then  plainly  and  pitilessly  the  taunt  of  the  foreign  woman 
came  back  to  me — what  was  I  there  for? 

I  knew  quite  well,  and  yet  I  saw  that  not  only  was  I  not 
doing  what  I  came  out  to  do,  but  every  time  an  opportunity 
had  offered  I  had  resisted  it.  It  was  just  as  if  an  inherited 
instinct  of  repulsion  had  restrained  m«,  or  some  strong 
unseen  arm  had  always  snatched  me  away. 

This  led  me — was  it  some  angel  leading  me? — to  think 
again  of  Martin  and  to  remember  our  beautiful  and  sacred 
parting  at  Castle  Raa. 

"  Whatever  happens  to  either  of  us,  we  belong  to  each 
other  for  ever,"  he  had  said,  and  I  had  answered,  "For  ever 
and  ever." 

It  was  a  fearful  shock  to  think  of  this  now.  I  saw  that 
if  I  did  what  I  had  come  out  to  do,  not  only  would  Mary 
O'Neill  be  dead  to  me  after  to-night,  but  Martin  Conrad 
would  be  dead  also. 

When  I  thought  of  that  I  realised  that,  although  I  had 
accepted,  without  question,  the  newspaper  reports  of  Martin's 
death,  he  had  never  hitherto  been  dead  to  me  at  all.  He  had 
lived  with  me  every  moment  of  my  life  since,  supporting 
me,  sustaining  me  and  inspiring  me,  so  that  nothing  I  had 
ever  done — not  one  single  thing — would  have  been  different 
if  I  had  believed  him  to  be  alive  and  been  sure  that  he  was 
coming  back. 

But  now  I  was  about  to  kill  Martin  Conrad  as  well  as  Mary 
O'Neill,  by  breaking  the  pledge  (sacred  as  any  sacrament) 
which  they  had  made  for  life  and  for  eternity. 

Could  I  do  that?  In  this  hideous  way  too?  Never! 
Never!  Never!  I  should  die  in  the  streets  first. 


I  AM  LOST  503 

I  remember  that  I  was  making  a  movement  to  go  back  to 
Ilford  (God  knows  how),  when,  on  the  top  of  all  my  brave 
thinking,  came  the  pitiful  thought  of  my  child.  My  poor 
helpless  little  baby,  who  had  made  no  promise  and  was  party 
to  no  pledge.  She  needed  nourishment  and  fresh  air  and 
sunshine,  and  if  she  could  not  get  them — if  I  went  back  to 
her  penniless — she  would  die! 

My  sweet  darling !  My,  Isabel,  my  only  treasure !  Martin 's 
ehild  and  mine! 

That  put  a  quick  end  to  all  my  qualms.  Again  I  bit  my  lip 
until  it  bled,  and  told  myself  that  I  should  speak  to  the 
very  next  man  who  came  along. 

"Yes,  the  very  next  man  who  comes  along,"  I  thought. 

I  was  standing  at  that  moment  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the 
pilasters  of  the  loggia,  almost  leaning  against  it,  and  in  the 
silence  of  the  street  I  heard  distinctly  the  sharp  firm  step 
of  somebody  coming  my  way. 

It  was  a  man.  As  he  came  near  me  he  slowed  down,  and 
stopped.  He  was  then  immediately  behind  me.  I  heard  his 
quick  breathing.  I  felt  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  me.  One 
sidelong  glance  told  me  that  he  was  wearing  a  long  ulster 
and  a  cap,  that  he  was  young,  tall,  powerfully  built,  had  a 
strong,  firm,  clean-shaven  face,  and  an  indescribable  sense  of 
the  open  air  about  him. 

"Now,  now!"  I  thought,  and  (to  prevent  myself  from 
running  away)  I  turned  quickly  round  to  him  and  tried  to 
speak. 

But  I  said  nothing.  I  did  not  know  what  women  say  to 
men  under  such  circumstances.  I  found  myself  trembling 
violently,  and  before  I  was  aware  of  what  was  happening  I 
had  burst  into  tears. 

Then  came  another  blinding  moment  and  a  tempest  of 
conflicting  feelings. 

I  felt  that  the  man  had  laid  hold  of  me,  that  his  strong 
hands  were  grasping  my  arms,  and  that  he  was  looking  into 
my  face.  I  heard  his  voice.  It  seemed  to  belong  to  no 
waking  moment  but  to  come  out  of  the  hours  of  sleep. 

"Mary!    Mary!" 

I  looked  up  at  him,  but  before  my  eyes  could  carry  the 
news  to  my  brain  I  knew  who  it  was — I  knew,  I  knew,  I 
knew! 

"Don't  be  afraid!    It's  I!" 


504  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 


something  —  God  knows  what  —  made  me  straggle  to 
escape,  and  I  cried: 

"Let  me  go!" 

Bat  even  while  I  was  struggling  —  trying  to  fly  away  from 
my  greatest  happiness  —  I  was  praying  with  all  my  might 
that  the  strong  arms  would  hold  me,  conquer  me,  master  me. 

They  did.  And  then  something  seemed  to  give  way  within 
my  head,  and  through  a  roaring  that  came  into  my  brain  I 
heard  the  Toice  again,  and  it  was  saying: 

"Quick,  Sister,  call  a  cab.  Open  the  door,  O  'Sullivan. 
No,  leave  her  to  me.  I've  got  her,  thank  God!" 

And  then  Minding  darkness  fell  over  me  and  everything 
was  blotted  out 

But  only  a  moment  afterwards  (or  what  seemed  to  be  a 
moment)  memory  came  back  in  a  great  swelling  wave  of 
joy.  Though  I  did  not  open  my  eyes  I  knew  that  I  was  safe 
and  baby  was  safe,  and  all  was  well  Somebody  —  H  was  the 
same  beloved  voice  again  —  was  saying: 

"Mally!  My  Mally!  My  poor,  long-suffering  darling! 
My  own  again,  God  bless  her!'1 

It  was  he,  it  was  Martin,  my  Martin.  And,  oh  Mother  of 
my  Lord,  he  was  carrying  me  upstairs  in  his  arms. 


SEVENTH  PART 
1  AM  FOUND 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTH  CHAPTER 

MY  return  to  consciousness  was  a  painful,  yet  joyful  ex- 
perience. It  was  almost  like  being  flung  in  a  frail  boat  out 
of  a  tempestuous  sea  into  a  quiet  harbour. 

I  seemed  to  hear  myself  saying,  "  My  child  shall  not  die. 
Poverty  shall  not  kill  her.  I  am  going  to  take  her  into  the 
country  .  .  .  she  will  recover.  .  .  .  No,  no,  it  is  not 
Martin.  Martin  is  dead.  .  .  .  But  his  eyes  .  .  .  don't  you 
see  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Let  me  go." 

Then  all  the  confused  sense  of  nightmare  seemed  to  be 
carried  away  as  by  some  mighty  torrent,  and  there  came  a 
great  calm,  a  kind  of  morning  sweetness,  with  the  sun  shining 
through  my  closed  eyelids,  and  not  a  sound  in  my  ears  but 
the  thin  carolling  of  a  bird. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  was  in  bed  in  a  room  that  was 
strange  to  me.  It  was  a  little  like  the  Reverend  Mother's 
room  in  Rome,  having  pictures  of  the  Saints  on  the  walls,  and 
a  large  figure  of  the  Sacred  Heart  over  the  mantelpiece; 
but  there  was  a  small  gas  fire,  and  a  canary  singing  in  a 
gilded  cage  that  hung  in  front  of  the  window. 
.  I  was  trying  to  collect  my  senses  in  order  to  realize  where 
I  was  when  Sister  Mildred's  kind  face,  in  her  white  wimple 
and  gorget,  leaned  over  me,  and  she  said,  with  a  tender  smile, 
"  You  are  awake  now,  my  child*  " 

Then  memory  came  rushing  back,  and  though  the  immediate 
past  was  still  like  a  stormy  dream  I  seemed  to  remember 
everything. 

"Is  it  true  that  I  saw.   .   .   . 

"Yes,"  said  Mildred. 

"Then-he  was  not  shipwrecked!" 

"That  was  a  false  report.  Within  a  month  or  two  the 
newspapers  had  contradicted  it." 

"Where  is  he?"  I  asked,  rising  from  my  pillow. 

"Hush!  Lie  quiet.  Yon  are  not  to  excite  yourself.  I 
must  call  the  doctor." 

505 


506  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Mildred  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  but  I  could  not  let 
her  go. 

'  Wait!     I  must  ask  you  something  more." 

' '  Not  now,  my  child.    Lie  down. ' ' 

"  But  I  must.  Dear  Sister,  I  must.  There  is  somebody 
else." 

"  You  mean  the  baby,"  said  Mildred,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes." 

"  She  has  been  found,  and  taken  to  the  country,  and  is 
getting  better  rapidly.  So  lie  down,  and  be  quiet,"  said 
Mildred,  and  with  a  long  breath  of  happiness  I  obeyed. 

A  moment  afterwards  I  heard  her  speaking  to  somebody 
over  the  telephone  (saying  I  had  recovered  consciousness  and 
was  almost  myself  again),  and  then  some  indistinct  words 
came  back  in  the  thick  telephone  voice  like  that  of  a  dumb 
man  shouting  down  a  tunnel,  followed  by  sepulchral  peals 
of  merry  laughter. 

"The  doctor  will  be  here  presently,"  said  Mildred,  return- 
ing to  me  with  a  shining  face. 

"And     .     .     .     he?" 

"  Yes,  perhaps  he  will  be  permitted  to  come,  too." 

She  was  telling  me  how  baby  had  been  discovered — by 
means  of  Mrs.  Oliver's  letter  which  had  been  found  in  my 
pocket — when  there  was  the  whirr  of  an  electric  bell  in  the 
corridor  outside,  followed  (as  soon  as  Mildred  could  reach  the 
door)  by  the  rich  roll  of  an  Irish  voice. 

It  was  Dr.  0 'Sullivan,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  standing 
by  my  bed,  his  face  ablaze  with  smiles. 

"  By  the  Saints  of  heaven,  this  is  good,  though,"  he  said. 
"  It's  worth  a  hundred  dozen  she  is  already  of  the  woman 
we  brought  here  first. ' ' 

"That  was  last  night,  wasn't  it?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  not  last  night  exactly,"  he  answered.  And  then  I 
gathered  that  I  had  been  ill,  seriously  ill,  being  two  days 
unconscious,  and  that  Martin  had  been  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
anxiety. 

"  He's  coming,  isn't  he?  "  I  said.  "  Will  he  be  here 
soon?  How  does  he  look?  Is  he  well?  Did  he  finish  his 
work?  " 

"  Now,  now,  now,"  said  the  doctor,  with  uplifted  hands. 
"  If  it's  exciting  yourself  like  this  you're  going  to  be,  it  isn't 
myself  that  will  be  taking  the  risk  of  letting  him  come  at  all." 

But  after  I  had  pleaded  and  prayed  and  promised  to  be 


I  AM  FOUND  507 

good  he  consented  to  allow  Martin  to  see  me,  and  then  it  was 
as  much  as  I  could  do  not  to  throw  my  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kiss  him. 

I  had  not  noticed  what  Mildred  was  doing  during  this  time, 
and  almost  before  I  was  aware  of  it  somebody  else  had 
entered  the  room. 

It  was  dear  old  Father  Dan. 

' '  Glory  be  to  God !  "  he  cried  at  sight  of  me,  and  then 
he  said: 

"  Don't  worry,  my  daughter,  now  don't  worry," — with 
that  nervous  emphasis  which  I  knew  by  long  experience  to  be 
the  surest  sign  of  my  dear  Father's  own  perturbation. 

I  did  not  know  then,  or  indeed  until  long  afterwards,  that 
for  six  months  past  he  had  been  tramping  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don in  search  of  me  (day  after  day,  and  in  the  dark  of  the 
night  and  the  cold  of  the  morning)  ;  but  something  in  his 
tender  old  face,  which  was  seamed  and  worn,  so  touched  me 
with  the  memory  of  the  last  scene  in  my  mother's  room  that 
my  eyes  began  to  overflow,  and  seeing  this  he  began  to  laugh 
and  let  loose  his  Irish  tongue  on  us. 

"  My  blissing  on  you,  doctor!  It's  the  mighty  proud  man 
yell  be  entoirely  to  be  saving  the  life  of  the  swatest  woman 
in  the  world.  And  whisha,  Sister,  if  ye  have  a  nip  of  some- 
thing neat  anywhere  handy,  faith  it  isn't  my  cloth  will  pre- 
vent me  from  drinking  the  health  of  everybody. ' ' 

If  this  was  intended  to  cheer  me  up  it  failed  completely, 
for  the  next  thing  I  knew  was  that  the  doctor  was  bustling 
the  dear  old  Father  out  of  the  room,  and  that  Mildred  was 
going  out  after  him. 

She  left  the  door  open,  though,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  calmed 
down  a  little  I  listened  intently  for  every  sound  outside. 

It  was  then  that  I  heard  the  whirr  of  the  electric  bell  again, 
but  more  softly  this  time,  and  followed  by  breathless  whis- 
pered words  in  the  corridor  (as  of  some  one  who  had  been 
running)  and  once  more  ...  I  knew,  I  knew,  I  knew ! 

After  a  moment  Mildred  came  to  ask  me  in  a  whisper  if  I 
was  quite  sure  that  I  could  control  myself,  and  though  my 
heart  was  thumping  against  my  breast,  I  answered  Yes. 

Then  I  called  for  a  hand-glass  and  made  my  hair  a  shade 
neater,  and  after  that  I  closed  my  eyes  (God  knows  why)  and 
waited. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  dead  silence,  and  then — 


508  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

then  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  him  standing  in  the  open 
doorway. 

His  big,  strong,  bronzed  face— stronger  than  ever  now,  and 
marked  with  a  certain  change  from  the  struggles  he  had  gone 
through — was  utterly  broken  up.  For  some  moments  he  did 
not  speak,  but  I  could  see  that  he  saw  the  change  that  life 
had  made  in  me  also.  Then  in  a  low  voice,  so  low  that  it 
was  like  the  breath  of  his  soul,  he  said: 

tl  Forgive  me!    Forgive  me!  " 

And  stepping  forward  he  dropped  to  his  knees  by  the  side 
of  my  bed,  and  kissed  the  arms  and  hands  I  was  stretching 
out  to  him. 

That  was  more  than  I  could  bear,  and  the  next  thing  I 
heard  was  my  darling's  great  voice  crying: 

"Sister!  Sister!  Some  brandy!   Quick!   She  has  fainted." 

But  my  poor  little  fit  of  hysterics  was  soon  at  an  end,  and 
though  Martin  was  not  permitted  to  stay  more  than  a  moment 
longer,  a  mighty  wave  of  happiness  flowed  over  me,  such  as  I 
had  never  known  before  and  may  never  know  again. 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTH  CHAPTER 

I  HAD  such  a  beautiful  convalescence.  For  the  major  opera- 
tions of  the  Great  Surgeon  an  anaesthetic  has  not  yet  been 
found,  but  within  a  week  I  was  sitting  up  again,  mutilated, 
perhaps,  but  gloriously  alive  and  without  the  whisper  of  a  cry. 

By  this  time  Father  Dan  had  gone  back  to  Elian  (parting 
from  me  with  a  solemn  face  as  he  said,  "  Lord,  now  lettest 
Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace  "),  and  Sister  Mildred 
had  obtained  permission  to  give  up  one  of  her  rooms  to  me 
as  long  as  I  should  need  it. 

Martin  came  to  see  me  every  day,  first  for  five  minutes, 
then  ten,  and  finally  for  a  quarter  and  even  half  an  hour.  He 
brought  such  an  atmosphere  of  health  with  him,  that  merely 
to  hold  his  hand  seemed  to  give  me  new  strength — being  so 
pale  and  bloodless  now  that  I  thought  the  sun  might  have 
shone  through  me  as  through  a  sea-gull. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  not  a  dream  that  he  was 
sitting  by  my  side,  and  sometimes  I  felt  as  if  I  had  to  touch 
him  to  make  sure  he  was  there. 

How  he  talked  to  keep  up  my  spirits !  It  was  nearly  always 
about  his  expedition  (never  about  me  or  my  experiences,  for 
that  seemed  a  dark  scene  from  which  he  would  not  draw  the 


I  AM  FOUND  509 

curtain),  and  I  was  all  a-tremble  as  I  listened  to  the  story  of 
his  hair-breadth  escapes,  though  he  laughed  and  made  so 
light  of  them. 

It  nearly  broke  my  heart  that  he  had  not  got  down  to  the 
Pole;  and  when  he  told  me  that  it  was  the  sense  of  my  voice 
calling  to  him  which  had  brought  him  back  from  the  88th 
latitude,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  a  coward,  unworthy  of  the 
man  who  loved  me. 

Sometimes  he  talked  about  baby — he  called  her  "  Girlie  " 
— telling  a  funny  story  of  how  he  had  carried  her  off  from 
Ilford,  where  the  bricklayer  had  suddenly  conceived  such  a 
surprising  affection  for  my  child  ("  what  he  might  go  so  far 
as  to  call  a  fatherly  feeling  ")  that  he  had  been  unwilling  to 
part  with  her  until  soothed  down  by  a  few  sovereigns — not  to 
say  frightened  by  a  grasp  of  Martin's  iron  hand  which  had 
nearly  broken  his  wrist. 

"  She's  as  right  as  a  trivet  now,  though,"  said  Martin, 
' '  and  I  '11  run  down  to  Chevening  every  other  day  to  see  how 
she's  getting  on." 

My  darling  was  in  great  demand  from  the  first,  but  when 
he  could  not  be  with  me  in  the  flesh  he  was  with  me  in  the 
spirit,  by  means  of  the  newspapers  which  Mildred  brought  up 
in  armfuls. 

I  liked  the  illustrated  ones  best,  with  their  pictures  of 
scenes  in  the  Expedition,  particularly  the  portraits  of  Martin 
himself  in  his  Antarctic  outfit,  with  his  broad  throat,  deter- 
mined lips,  clear  eyes,  and  that  general  resemblance  to  the 
people  we  all  know  which  makes  us  feel  that  the  great  men 
of  every  age  are  brothers  of  one  family. 

But  what  literary  tributes  there  were,  too!  What  inter- 
views, what  articles!  A  member  of  the  scientific  staff  had 
said  that  "  down  there,"  with  Nature  in  her  wrath,  where 
science  was  nothing  and  even  physical  strength  was  not  all, 
only  one  thing  really  counted,  and  that  was  the  heroic  soul, 
and  because  Martin  had  it,  he  had  always  been  the  born 
leader  of  them  all. 

And  then,  summing  up  the  tangible  gains  of  the  Expedi- 
tion, the  Times  said  its  real  value  was  moral  and  spiritual, 
because  it  showed  that  in  an  age  when  one  half  of  the  world 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  acquisition  of 
wealth  (that  made  me  think  of  my  father)  and  the  other  half 
of  nothing  but  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  (that  reminded  me  of 
my  husband  and  Alma),  there  could  be  found  men  like 


510  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Martin  Conrad  and  his  dauntless  comrades  who  had  faced 
death  for  the  sake  of  an  ideal  and  were  ready  to  do  so  again. 

Oh  dear!  what  showers  of  tears  I  shed  over  those  news- 
papers! But  the  personal  honours  that  were  bestowed  on 
Martin  touched  me  most  of  all. 

First,  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  held  a  meeting  at 
the  Albert  Hall,  where  the  Gold  Medal  was  presented  to  him. 
I  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  on  the  night  of  that  function,  1 
remember,  until  Dr.  0 'Sullivan  (heaven  bless  him!)  came 
flying  upstairs,  to  tell  me  that  it  had  been  a  "splendid  suc- 
cess," and  Martin's  speech  (he  hadn't  prepared  a  word  of 
it)  "a  perfect  triumph." 

Then  some  of  the  Universities  conferred  degrees  on  my 
darling,  which  was  a  source  of  inexpressible  amusement  to 
him,  especially  when  (after  coming  back  from  Edinburgh) 
he  marched  up  and  down  my  room  in  his  Doctor's  cap  and 
gown,  and  I  asked  him  to  spell  "  promise  "  and  he  couldn't. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  it  all !  It  was  so  great  a  joy  that  at  length 
it  became  a  pain. 

The  climax  came  when  the  Home  Secretary  wrote  to  say 
that  the  King  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  confer  a  Knight- 
hood upon  Martin,  in  recognition  of  his  splendid  courage  and 
the  substantial  contribution  he  had  already  made  to  the 
material  welfare  of  the  world. 

That  frightened  me  terribly,  though  only  a  woman  would 
know  why.  It  was  one  thing  to  share  the  honours  of  the  man 
I  loved  (however  secretly  and  as  it  were  by  stealth),  but  quite 
another  thing  to  feel  that  they  were  carrying  him  away  from 
me,  drawing  him  off,  lifting  him  up,  and  leaving  me  far  below. 

When  the  sense  of  this  became  acute  I  used  to  sit  at  night, 
when  Mildred  was  out  at  her  work,  by  the  lofty  window  of 
her  room,  looking  down  on  the  precincts  of  Piccadilly,  and 
wondering  how  much  my  darling  really  knew  about  the  im- 
pulse that  took  me  there,  and  how  nearly  (but  for  the  grace 
of  God)  its  awful  vortex  had  swallowed  me  up. 

It  was  then  that  I  began  to  write  these  notes  (having  per- 
suaded Mildred  to  buy  me  this  big  book  with  its  silver  clasp 
and  key),  not  intending  at  first  to  tell  the  whole  story  of  my 
life,  but  only  to  explain  to  him  for  whom  everything  has  been 
written  (what  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  say  face  to  face), 
how  it  came  to  pass  that  I  was  tempted  to  that  sin  which  is  the 
most  awful  crime  against  her  sex  that  a  woman  can  commit. 

Three  months  had  gone  by  this  time,  the  spring  was  coming, 


I  AM  FOUND  511 

and  I  was  beginning  to  feel  that  Martin  (who  had  not  yet 
been  home)  was  being  kept  in  London  on  my  account,  when 
Dr.  0 'Sullivan  announced  that  I  was  well  enough  to  be 
moved,  and  that  a  little  of  my  native  air  would  do  me  good. 

Oh,  the  thrill  that  came  with  that  prospect !  I  suppose 
there  is  a  sort  of  call  to  one's  heart  from  the  soil  that  gave 
one  birth,  but  in  my  case  it  was  coupled  with  a  chilling  thought 
of  the  poor  welcome  I  should  receive  there,  my  father's  house 
being  closed  to  me  and  my  husband 's  abandoned  for  ever. 

The  very  next  morning,  however,  there  came  a  letter  from 
Father  Dan,  giving  me  all  the  news  of  Elian :  some  of  it  sad 
enough,  God  knows  (about  the  downfall  of  my  father's 
financial  schemes)  ;  some  of  it  deliciously  wicked,  such  as  it 
would  have  required  an  angel  not  to  rejoice  in  (about  the  bad 
odour  in  which  Alma  and  my  husband  were  now  held,  mak- 
ing the  pendulum  of  popular  feeling  swing  back  in  my  direc- 
tion) ;  and  some  of  it  utterly  heart-breaking  in  its  assurances 
of  the  love  still  felt  for  me  in  my  native  place. 

Of  course  the  sweetest  part  of  that  came  from  Christian 
Ann,  who,  after  a  stiff  fight  with  her  moral  principles,  had 
said  that  whatever  I  had  done  I  was  as  "  pure  as  the  moun- 
tain turf,"  and,  who  then  charged  Father  Dan  with  the 
message  that  "  Mary  O'Neill's  little  room  "  was  waiting  for 
her  still. 

This  settled  everything — everything  except  one  thing,  and 
that  was  the  greatest  thing  of  all.  But  when  Martin  came 
later  the  same  day,  having  received  the  same  message,  and 
declared  his  intention  of  taking  me  home,  there  seemed  to 
be  nothing  left  to  wish  for  in  earth  or  heaven. 

Nevertheless  I  shouldn't  have  been  a  woman  if  I  had  not 
coquetted  with  my  great  happiness,  so  when  Martin  had 
finished  I  said: 

"  But  dare  you?  " 

"  Dare  I— what?  "  said  Martin. 

"  Dare  you  go  home    .    .    .   with  me?  " 

I  knew  what  I  wanted  him  to  say,  and  he  said  it  like  a 
darling. 

"  Look  here,  Mary,  I'm  just  spoiling  for  a  sight  of  the 
little  island,  and  the  old  people  are  destroyed  at  not  seeing 
me;  but  if  I  can't  go  back  with  you,  by  the  Lord  God!  I'll 
never  go  back  at  all." 

I  wanted  to  see  baby  before  going  away,  but  that  was  for- 
bidden me. 


512  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"  Wait  until  you're  well  enough,  and  we'll  send  her  after 
you,"  said  Dr.  0 'Sullivan. 

So  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  inside  a  week  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Elian,  not  only  with  Martin,  but  also  with  Mildred,  who, 
being  a  little  out  of  health  herself,  had  been  permitted  to  take 
me  home. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  our  arrival  at  Blackwater !  The  steamer 
we  sailed  in  was  streaming  with  flags  from  stem  to  stern,  and 
as  she  slid  up  the  harbour  the  dense  crowds  that  packed  the 
pier  from  end  to  end  seemed  frantic  with  excitement.  Such 
shouting  and  cheering!  Such  waving  of  hats  and  hand- 
kerchiefs ! 

There  was  a  sensible  pause,  I  thought,  a  sort  of  hush,  when 
the  gangway  being  run  down,  Martin  was  seen  to  give  his 
arm  to  me,  and  I  was  recognised  as  the  lost  and  dishonoured 
one. 

But  even  that  only  lasted  for  a  moment.  It  was  almost  as 
if  the  people  felt  that  this  act  of  Martin's  was  of  a^piece 
with  the  sacred  courage  that  had  carried  him  down  near  to 
the  Pole,  for  hardly  had  he  brought  me  ashore,  and  put  me 
into  the  automobile  waiting  to  take  us  away,  when  the  cheer- 
ing broke  out  into  almost  delirious  tumult. 

I  knew  it  was  all  for  Martin,  but  not  even  the  humility  of 
my  position,  and  the  sense  of  my  being  an  added  cause  of 
my  darling's  glory,  could  make  me  otherwise  than  proud 
and  happy. 

We  drove  home,  with  the  sunset  in  our  faces,  over  the 
mountain  road  which  I  had  crossed  with  my  husband  on  the 
day  of  my  marriage ;  and  when  we  came  to  our  own  village  I 
could  not  help  seeing  that  a  little — just  a  little — of  the  wel- 
come waiting  for  us  was  meant  for  me. 

Father  Dan  was  there.  He  got  into  the  car  and  sat  by  my 
side;  and  then  some  of  the  village  women,  who  had  smart- 
ened themselves  up  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  reached  over 
and  shook  hands  with  me,  speaking  about  things  I  had  said 
and  done  as  a  child  and  had  long  forgotten. 

We  had  to  go  at  a  walking  pace  the  rest  of  the  way,  and 
while  Martin  saluted  old  friends  (he  remembered  everybody 
by  name)  Father  Dan  talked  in  my  ear  about  the  "  domestic 
earthquake  "  that  had  been  going  on  at  Sunny  Lodge,  every- 
thing topsy-turvy  until  to-day,  the  little  room  being  made 
ready  for  me,  and  the  best  bedroom  (the  doctor's  and  Christ- 
ian Ann's)  for  Martin,  and  the  "  loft  "  over  the  dairy  for 


I  AM  POUND  513 

the  old  people  themselves — as  if  their  beloved  son  had  been 
good  in  not  forgetting  them,  and  had  condescended  in  coming 
home. 

"  Is  it  true?  "  they  had  asked  each  other.  "  Is  he  really, 
really  coming?  "  "  What  does  he  like  to  eat,  mother?  " 
"What  does  he  drink?"  "What  does  he  smoke?" 

I  had  to  close  my  eyes  as  I  came  near  the  gate  of  my 
father's  house,  and,  except  for  the  rumbling  of  the  river 
under  the  bridge  and  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  in  the  elms, 
I  should  not  have  known  when  we  were  there. 

The  old  doctor  (his  face  overflowing  with  happiness,  and 
his  close-cropped  white  head  bare,  as  if  he  had  torn  out  of 
the  house  at  the  toot  of  our  horn)  met  us  as  we  turned  into  the 
lane,  and  for  the  little  that  was  left  of  our  journey  he  walked 
blithely  as  a  boy  by  the  car,  at  the  side  on  which  Martin  sat. 

I  reached  forward  to  catch  the  first  sight  of  Sunny  Lodge, 
and  there  it  was  behind  its  fuchsia  hedge,  which  was  just 
breaking  into  bloom. 

There  was  Christian  Ann,  too,  at  the  gate  in  her  sunbonnet ; 
and  before  the  automobile  had  come  to  a  stand  Martin  was 
out  of  it  and  had  her  in  his  arms. 

I  knew  what  that  meant  to  the  dear  sweet  woman,  and 
for  a  moment  my  spirits  failed  me,  because  it  flashed  upon  my 
mind  that  perhaps  her  heart  had  only  warmed  to  me  for 
the  sake  of  her  son. 

But  just  as  I  was  stepping  out  of  the  car,  feeling  physically 
weak  and  slipping  a  little,  though  Father  Dan  and  Sister 
Mildred  were  helping  me  to  alight,  my  Martin's  mother 
rushed  at  me  and  gathered  me  in  her  arms,  crying: 

"Goodness  gracious  me,  doctor — if  it  isn't  little  Mary 
O'Neill,  God  bless  her!" — just  as  she  did  in  the  old,  old  days 
when  I  came  as  a  child  "singing  carvals  to  her  door." 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  EIGHTH  CHAPTER 
WHEN  I  awoke  next  morning  in  "Mary  O'Neill's  little 
room,"  with  its  odour  of  clean  white  linen  and  sweet-smelling 
scraas,  the  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  half -open  window,  birds 
were  singing,  cattle  were  lowing,  young  lambs  were  bleating, 
a  crow  was  cawing  its  way  across  the  sky,  and  under  the 
sounds  of  the  land  there  was  a  far-off  murmur  of  the  sea. 

Through  the  floor  (unceiled  beneath)  I  could  hear  the 
Doctor  and  Christian  Ann  chortling  away  in  low  tones  like 

2K 


514  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

two  cheerful  old  love-birds ;  and  when  I  got  up  and  looked  out 
I  saw  the  pink  and  white  blossom  of  the  apple  and  plum 
trees,  and  smelt  the  smoke  of  burning  peat  from  the  chimney, 
as  well  as  the  salt  of  the  sea-weed  from  the  shore. 

Sister  Mildred  came  to  help  me  to  dress,  and  when  I  went 
downstairs  to  the  sweet  kitchen-parlour,  feeling  so  strong  and 
fresh,  Christian  Ann,  who  was  tossing  an  oat-cake  she  was 
baking  on  the  griddle,  cried  to  me,  as  to  a  child : 

"Come  your  ways,  villish;  you  know  the  house." 

And  when  I  stepped  over  the  rag-work  hearthrug  and  sat 
in  the  "elbow-chair"  in  the  chiollagh,  under  the  silver  bowls 
that  stood  on  the  high  mantelpiece,  she  cried  again,  as  if 
addressing  the  universe  in  general,  for  there  was  nobody 
else  in  the  room: 

"Look  at  that  now!  She's  been  out  in  the  big  world,  and 
seen  great  wonders,  and  a  power  of  people  I'll  go  bail,  but 
there  she  is,  as  nice  and  comfortable  as  if  she  had  never  been 
away ! ' ' 

Sister  Mildred  came  down  next;  and  then  the  old  doctor, 
who  had  been  watching  the  road  for  Martin  (he  had  refused 
to  occupy  the  old  people's  bedroom  after  all  and  had  put  up 
at  the  "Plough"),  came  in,  saying: 

"The  boy's  late,  mother — what's  doing  on  him,  I  wonder?" 

We  waited  awhile  longer,  and  then  sat  down  to  breakfast. 
Oh,  the  homely  beauty  of  that  morning  meal,  with  its  por- 
ridge, its  milk,  its  honey  and  cakes,  its  butter  like  gold,  and 
its  eggs  like  cream! 

In  spite  of  Sister  Mildred's  protests  Christian  Ann  stood 
and  served,  and  I  will  not  say  that  for  me  there  was  not  a 
startling  delight  in  being  waited  upon  once  more,  being  asked 
what  I  would  like,  and  getting  it,  giving  orders  and  being 
obeyed — me,  me,  me! 

At  length  in  the  exercise  of  my  authority  I  insisted  on 
Christian  Ann  sitting  down  too,  which  she  did,  though  she 
didn't  eat,  but  went  on  talking  in  her  dear,  simple,  delicious 
way. 

It  was  always  about  Martin,  and  the  best  of  it  was  about 
her  beautiful  faith  that  he  was  still  alive  when  the  report 
came  that  he  had  been  lost  at  sea. 

WhatT  Her  son  dying  like  that,  and  she  old  and  the  sun 
going  down  on  her  ?  Never !  Newspapers  ?  Chut,  who  cared 
what  people  put  in  the  papers?  If  Martin  had  really  been 


I  AM  FOUND  515 

lost,  wouldn't  she  have  known  it — having  borne  him  on  her 
bosom  ("a  middling  hard  birth,  too"),  and  being  the  first 
to  hear  his  living  voice  in  the  world? 

So  while  people  thought  she  was  growing  "weak  in  her  in- 
tellects," she  had  clung  to  the  belief  that  her  beloved  son 
would  come  back  to  her.  And  behold!  one  dark  night  in 
winter,  when  she  was  sitting  in  the  chiollagh  alone,  and  the 
wind  was  loud  in  the  trees,  and  the  doctor  upstairs  was  call- 
ing on  her  to  come  to  bed  ("you're  wearing  yourself  away, 
woman"),  she  heard  a  sneck  of  the  garden  gate  and  a  step 
on  the  gravel  path,  and  it  was  old  Tommy  the  Mate,  who 
without  waiting  for  her  to  open  the  door  let  a  great  yell  out 
of  him  through  the  window  that  a  "talegraf"  had  come 
to  say  her  boy  was  safe. 

Father  Dan  looked  in  after  mass,  in  his  biretta  and  faded 
cassock  (the  same,  I  do  declare,  that  he  had  worn  when  I  was 
a  child),  and  then  Martin  himself  came  swinging  up,  with 
his  big  voice,  like  a  shout  from  the  quarter-deck. 

' '  Helloa !   Stunning  morning,  isn  't  it  ? " 

It  was  perfectly  delightful  to  see  the  way  he  treated  his 
mother,  though  there  was  not  too  much  reverence  in  his 
teasing,  and  hardly  more  love  than  license. 

When  she  told  him  to  sit  down  if  he  had  not  forgotten  the 
house,  and  said  she  hoped  he  had  finished  looking  for  South 
Poles  and  was  ready  to  settle  quietly  at  home,  and  he  an- 
swered No,  he  would  have  to  go  back  to  London  presently, 
she  cried: 

"There  now,  doctor?  What  was  I  telling  you?  Once 
they've  been  away,  it's  witched  they  are — longing  and  long- 
ing to  go  back  again.  What 's  there  in  London  that 's  wanting 
him?" 

Whereupon  the  doctor  (thinking  of  the  knighthood),  with 
a  proud  lift  of  his  old  head  and  a  wink  at  Father  Dan,  said : 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  it's  the  King  that's  wanting  him, 
woman. ' ' 

"The  King?"  cried  Christian  Ann.  "He's  got  a  bonny 
son  of  his  own,  they're  telling  me,  so  what  for  should  he  be 
wanting  mine?" 

"Mary,"  said  Martin,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak  for  laugh- 
ing, "do  you  want  a  mother?  I've  got  one  to  sell,  and  I 
wouldn't  fnist  but  I  might  give  her  away." 

"Cuff  him,  Mrs.  Conrad,"  cried  Father  Dan.  "Cuff  him, 
the  young  rascal!  He  may  be  a  big  man  in  the  great  world 


516  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

over  the  water,  but  he  mustn  't  come  here  expecting  his  mother 
and  his  old  priest  to  worship  him." 

How  we  laughed!  I  laughed  until  I  cried,  not  knowing 
which  I  was  doing  most,  but  feeling  as  if  I  had  never  had  an 
ache  or  a  care  in  all  my  life  before. 

Breakfast  being  over,  the  men  going  into  the  garden  to 
smoke,  and  Sister  Mildred  insisting  on  clearing  the  table, 
Christian  Ann  took  up  her  knitting,  sat  by  my  side,  and  told 
me  the  "newses"  of  home — sad  news,  most  of  it,  about  my 
father,  God  pity  him,  and  how  his  great  schemes  for  "gal- 
vanising the  old  island  into  life"  had  gone  down  to  fail- 
ure and  fatuity,  sending  some  to  the  asylum  and  some  to 
the  graveyard,  and  certain  of  the  managers  of  corporations 
and  banks  to  gaol. 

My  father  himself  had  escaped  prosecution;  but  he  was 
supposed  to  be  a  ruined  man,  dying  of  cancer,  and  had  gone 
to  live  in  his  mother's  old  cottage  on  the  curragh,  with  only 
Nessy  McLeod  to  care  for  him — having  left  the  Big  House  to 
Aunt  Bridget  and  cousin  Betsy,  who  declared  (so  I  gathered 
or  guessed)  that  I  had  disgraced  their  name  and  should  never 
look  on  their  faces  again. 

"But  dear  heart  alive,  that  won't  cut  much  ice,  will  it?" 
said  Christian  Ann,  catching  a  word  of  Martin's. 

Later  in  the  day,  being  alone  with  the  old  doctor,  I  heard 
something  of  my  husband  also — that  he  had  applied  (accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  Elian)  for  an  Act  of  Divorce,  and  that 
our  insular  legislature  was  likely  to  grant  it. 

Still  later,  having  walked  out  into  the  garden,  where  the 
bluebells  were  in  bloom,  I,  too,  heard  the  sneck  of  the  gate, 
and  it  was  old  Tommy  again,  who  (having  been  up  to  the 
"Plough"  to  "put  a  sight  on  himself")  had  come  round  to 
welcome  me  as  well — a  little  older,  a  little  feebler,  "tacking 
a  bit,"  as  he  said,  with  "romps  in  his  fetlock  joints,"  but 
feeling  "well  tremenjus." 

He  had  brought  the  "full  of  his  coat-pockets"  of  lobsters 
and  crabs  for  me  ("wonderful  good  for'  invalids,  missie") 
and  the  "full  of  his  mouth"  of  the  doings  at  Castle  Raa, 
which  he  had  left  immediately  after  myself — Price  also, 
neither  of  them  being  willing  to  stay  with  a  master  who  had 
"the  rough  word"  for  everybody,  and  a  "misthress"  who 
had  "the  black  curse  on  her"  that  would  "carry  her  naked 
sowl  to  hell." 


I  AM  FOUND  517 

"I  wouldn't  be  gardener  there,  after  the  lil  missie  had  gone 
.  .  .  no,  not  for  the  Bank  of  Elian  and  it  full  of  goold. ' ' 

What  a  happy,  happy  day  that  was!  There  was  many 
another  day  like  it,  too,  during  the  sweet  time  following, 
when  spring  was  smiling  once  more  upon  earth  and  man,  and 
body  and  soul  in  myself  were  undergoing  a  resurrection  no 
less  marvellous. 

After  three  or  four  weeks  I  had  so  far  recovered  as  to  be 
able  to  take  walks  with  Martin — through  the  leafy  lanes  with 
the  golden  gorse  on  the  high  turf  hedges  and  its  nutty  odour 
in  the  air,  as  far,  sometimes,  as  to  the  shore,  where  we  talked 
about  "asploring"  or  perhaps  (without  speaking  at  all) 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  laughed. 

There  was  really  only  one  limitation  to  my  happiness, 
separation  from  my  child,  and  though  I  was  conscious  of 
something  anomalous  in  my  own  position  which  the  presence 
of  my  baby  would  make  acute  (setting  all  the  evil  tongues 
awag),  I  could  not  help  it  if,  as  I  grew  stronger,  I  yearned 
for  my  little  treasure. 

The  end  of  it  was  that,  after  many  timid  efforts,  I  took 
courage  and  asked  Martin  if  I  might  have  my  precious  dar- 
ling back. 

"Girlie?"  he  cried.  "Certainly  you  may.  You  are  well 
enough  now,  so  why  shouldn't  you?  I'm  going  to  London 
on  Exploration  business  soon,  and  I'll  bring  her  home  with 
me." 

But  when  he  was  gone  (Mildred  went  with  him)  I  was  still 
confronted  by  one  cause  of  anxiety — Christian  Ann.  I  could 
not  even  be  sure  she  knew  of  the  existence  of  my  child,  still 
less  that  Martin  intended  to  fetch  her. 

So  once  more  I  took  my  heart  in  both  hands,  and  while 
we  sat  together  in  the  garden,  with  the  sunlight  pouring 
through  the  trees,  Christian  Ann  knitting  and  I  pretending 
to  read,  I  told  her  all. 

She  knew  everything  already,  the  dear  old  thing,  and  had 
only  been  waiting  for  me  to  speak.  After  dropping  a  good 
many  stitches  she  said: 

"The  world  will  talk,  and  dear  heart  knows  what  Father 
Dan  himself  will  say.  But  blood's  thicker  than  water,  even 
if  it's  holy  water,  and  she's  my  own  child's  child,  God  bless 
her!" 

After  that  we  had  such  delicious  times  together,  preparing 
for  the  little  stranger  who  was  to  come — cutting  up  blankets 


518  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

and  sheets,  and  smuggling  down  from  the  "loft"  to  "Mary 
O'Neill's  room"  the  wooden  cradle  which  had  once  been 
Martin's,  and  covering  it  with  bows  and  ribbons. 

We  kept  the  old  doctor  in  the  dark  (pretended  we  did) 
and  when  he  wondered  "what  all  the  fuss  was  about,"  and 
if  ' '  the  island  expected  a  visit  from  the  Queen, ' '  we  told  him 
(Christian  Ann  did)  to  "ask  us  no  questions  and  we'd  tell 
no  lies." 

What  children  we  were,  we  two  mothers,  the  old  one  and 
the  young  one!  I  used  to  hint,  with  an  air  of  great  mystery, 
that  my  baby  had  "somebody's  eyes,"  and  then  the  dear 
simple  old  thing  would  say: 

"Somebody's  eyes,  has  she?  Well,  well!  Think  of  that, 
now!" 

But  Christian  Ann,  from  the  lofty  eminence  of  the  mother- 
hood of  one  child  twenty-five  years  before,  was  my  general 
guide  and  counsellor,  answering  all  my  foolish  questions  when 
I  counted  up  baby's  age  (eleven  months  now)  and  wondered 
if  she  could  walk  and  talk  by  this  time,  how  many  of  her  little 
teeth  should  have  come  and  whether  she  could  remember  me. 

As  the  time  approached  for  Martin 's  return  our  childishness 
increased,  and  on  the  last  day  of  all  we  carried  on  such  a 
game  together  as  must  have  made  the  very  Saints  themselves 
look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

Before  I  opened  my  eyes  in  the  morning  I  was  saying  to 
myself,  "Now  they're  on  their  way  to  Euston, "  and  every 
time  I  heard  the  clock  strike  I  was  thinking,  "Now  they're 
in  the  train,"  or  "Now  they're  at  Liverpool,"  or  "Now 
they're  on  the  steamer";  but  all  the  while  I  sang  "Sally" 
and  other  nonsense,  and  pretended  to  be  as  happy  as  the  day 
was  long. 

Christian  Ann  was  even  more  excited  than  myself;  and 
though  she  was  always  reproving  me  for  my  nervousness  and 
telling  me  to  be  composed,  I  saw  her  put  the  kettle  instead 
of  the  tea-pot  on  to  the  tablecloth,  and  the  porridge-stick  into 
the  fire  in  place  of  the  tongs. 

Towards  evening,  when  Martin  was  due,  I  had  reduced 
myself  to  such  a  state  of  weakness  that  Christian  Ann  wanted 
to  put  me  to  bed;  but  sitting  down  in  the  chiollagli,  and 
watching  the  road  from  the  imprisonment  of  the  "elbow- 
chair,"  I  saw  at  last  the  two  big  white  eyes  of  the  automobile 
wheeling  round  in  the  dusk  by  the  gate  of  my  father's  house. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Martin  came  sweeping  into  the 


I  AM  FOUND  519 

kitchen  with  a  nice-looking  nurse  behind  him,  carrying  my 
darling  at  her  breast. 

She  was  asleep,  but  the  light  of  the  fire  soon  wakened  her, 
and  then  a  strange  thing  happened. 

I  had  risen  from  my  seat,  and  Christian  Ann  had  come 
hurrying  up,  and  we  two  women  were  standing  about  baby, 
both  ready  to  clutch  at  her,  when  she  blinked  her  blue  eyes 
and  looked  at  us,  and  then  held  out  her  arms  to  her  grand- 
mother ! 

That  nearly  broke  my  heart  for  a  moment  (though  now  I 
thank  the  Lord  for  it),  but  it  raised  Christian  Ann  into  the 
seventh  heaven  of  rapture. 

"Did  you  see  that  now?"  she  cried,  clasping  my  baby  to 
her  bosom — her  eyes  glistening  as  with  sunshine,  though  her 
cheeks  were  slushed  as  with  rain. 

I  got  my  treasure  to  myself  at  last  (Christian  Ann  having 
to  show  the  nurse  up  to  her  bedroom),  and  then,  being  alone 
with  Martin,  I  did  not  care,  in  the  intoxication  of  my  happi- 
ness, how  silly  I  was  in  my  praise  of  her. 

"Isn't  she  a  little  fairy,  a  little  angel,  a  little  cherub?" 
I  cried.  "And  that  nasty,  nasty  birthmark  quite,  quite  gone." 

The  ugly  word  had  slipped  out  unawares,  but  Martin  had 
caught  it,  and  though  I  tried  to  make  light  of  it,  he  gave  me 
no  peace  until  I  had  told  him  what  it  meant — with  all  the 
humiliating  story  of  my  last  night  at  Castle  Raa  and  the 
blow  my  husband  had  struck  me. 

"But  that's  all  over  now,"  I  said. 

"Is  it?  By  the  Lord  God  I  swear  it  isn't,  though!"  said 
Martin,  and  his  face  was  so  fierce  that  it  made  me  afraid. 

But  just  at  that  moment  Christian  Ann  came  downstairs, 
and  the  old  doctor  returned  from  his  rounds,  and  then  Tommy 
the  Mate  looked  in  on  his  way  to  the  "Plough,"  and  hinting 
at  my  going  to  church  again  some  day,  gave  it  as  his  opinion 
that  if  I  put  the  "boght  millish"  under  my  "perricut"  (our 
old  island  custom  for  legitimising  children)  "the  Bishop 
himself  couldn't  say  nothin'  against  it" — at  which  Martin 
laughed  so  much  that  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  his  vow 
about  my  husband. 

MEMORANDUM  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD 

I  hadn't,  though. 

The  brute!  The  bully!  When  my  darling  told  me  that 
story  (I  had  to  drag  it  out  of  her)  I  felt  that  if  I  had  been 


520  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

within  a  hundred  miles  at  the  time,  and  had  had  to  crawl 
home  to  the  man  on  my  hands  and  knees,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  enough  of  him  left  now  to  throw  on  the  dust-heap. 

Nearly  two  years  had  passed  since  the  debt  was  incurred, 
but  I  thought  a  Christian  world  could  not  go  on  a  day  longer 
until  I  had  paid  it  back — with  interest. 

So  fearing  that  my  tender-hearted  little  woman,  if  she  got 
wind  of  my  purpose,  might  make  me  promise  to  put  away 
my  vow  of  vengeance,  I  got  up  early  next  morning  and 
ordered  the  motor-car  to  be  made  ready  for  a  visit  to  Castle 
Raa. 

Old  Tommy  happened  to  be  in  the  yard  of  the  inn  while 
I  was  speaking  to  the  chauffeur,  and  he  asked  if  he  might 
be  allowed  to  go  with  me.  I  agreed,  and  when  I  came  out 
to  start  he  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  car,  with  his 
Glengarry  pulled  down  over  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  his 
knotty  hands  leaning  on  a  thick  blackthorn  that  had  a  head 
as  big  as  a  turnip. 

"We  did  not  talk  too  much  on  the  way — I  had  to  save  up 
my  strength  for  better  business — and  it  was  a  long  spin,  but 
we  got  to  our  journey's  end  towards  the  middle  of  the  morn- 
ing. 

As  we  went  up  the  drive  (sacred  to  me  by  one  poignant 
memory)  an  open  carriage  was  coming  down.  The  only 
occupant  was  a  rather  vulgar-looking  elderly  woman  (in 
large  feathers  and  flowing  furbelows)  whom  I  took  to  be  the 
mother  of  Alma. 

Three  powdered  footmen  came  to  the  door  of  the  Castle  as 
our  car  drove  up.  Their  master  was  out  riding.  They  did 
not  know  when  he  would  be  back. 

"Ill  wait  for  him,"  I  said,  and  pushed  into  the  hall,  old 
Tommy  following  me. 

I  think  the  footmen  had  a  mind  to  intercept  us,  but  I  sup- 
pose there  was  something  in  my  face  which  told  them  it  would 
be  better  not  to  try,  so  I  walked  into  the  first  room  with  the 
door  open. 

It  turned  out  to  be  the  dining-room,  with  portraits  of  the 
owner's  ancestors  all  round  the  walls — a  solid  square  of  evil- 
looking  rascals,  every  mother's  son  of  them. 

Tommy,  still  resting  his  knotty  hands  on  his  big  blackthorn, 
was  sitting  on  the  first  chair  by  the  door,  and  I  on  the  end  of 
the  table,  neither  saying  a  word  to  the  other,  when  there 
came  the  sound  of  horses '  hoofs  on  the  path  outside.  A  little 


I  AM  FOUND  521 

later  there  were  voices  in  the  hall,  both  low  and  loud  ones — 
the  footmen  evidently  announcing  my  arrival  and  their 
master  abusing  them  for  letting  me  into  the  house. 

At  the  next  moment  the  man  came  sweeping  into  the  din- 
ing-room. He  was  carrying  a  heavy  hunting-crop  and  his 
flabby  face  was  livid.  Behind  him  came  Alma.  She  was  in 
riding  costume  and  was  bending  a  lithe  whip  in  her  gloved 
hands. 

I  saw  that  my  noble  lord  was  furious,  but  that  mood  suited 
me  as  well  as  another,  so  I  continued  to  sit  on  the  end  of  the 
table. 

"So  I  hear,  sir,"  he  said,  striding  up  to  me,  "I  hear  that 
you  have  taken  possession  of  my  place  without  so  much  as 
'by  your  leave'?" 

"That's  so,"  I  answered. 

"Haven't  you  done  enough  mischief  here,  without  coming 
to  insult  me  by  your  presence?" 

"Not  quite.  I've  a  little  more  to  do  before  I've  finished." 

"Jim,"  said  the  woman  (in  such  a  weary  voice),  "don't 
put  yourself  about  over  such  a  person.  Better  ring  the  bell 
for  the  servants  and  have  him  turned  out  of  doors. ' ' 

I  looked  round  at  her.  She  tried  an  insolent  smile,  but  it 
broke  down  badly,  and  then  his  lordship  strode  up  to  me  with 
quivering  lips. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  to  show 
your  face  in  my  house?" 

"I'm  not,"  I  replied.  "But  before  I  leave  it,  I  believe 
you'll  be  ashamed  to  show  your  face  anywhere." 

"Damn  it,  sir!  Will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  tell  me  why 
you  are  here?"  said  his  lordship,  with  fury  in  his  looks. 

"Certainly.  That's  exactly  what  I've  come  for,"  I  said, 
and  then  I  stated  my  business  without  more  ado. 

I  told  him  what  he  had  done  to  the  woman  who  was  ten 
thousand  times  too  good  to  be  his  wife — torturing  her  with 
his  cruelties,  degrading  her  with  his  infidelities,  subjecting 
her  to  the  domination  of  his  paramour,  and  finally  striking 
her  in  the  face  like  a  coward  and  a  cur. 

"Liar!"  he  cried,  fairly  gasping  in  his  rage.  "You're  a 
liar  and  your  informant  is  a  liar,  too." 

"Tommy,"  I  said,  "will  you  step  outside  for  a  moment?" 

Tommy  went  out  of  the  room  at  once,  and  the  woman,  who 
was  now  looking  frightened,  tried  to  follow  him. 


522  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  stopped  her.  Rising  from  the  table,  I  stepped  over  to 
the  door  and  locked  it. 

"No,  madam,"  I  said.  "I  want  you  to  see  what  takes 
place  between  his  lordship  and  me." 

The  wretched  woman  fell  back,  but  the  man,  grinding  his 
teeth,  came  marching  up  to  me. 

"So  you've  come  to  fight  me  in  my  own  house,  have  you?" 
he  cried. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  answered.  "A  man  fights  his  equal.  I've 
come  to  thrash  you." 

That  was  enough  for  him.  He  lifted  his  hunting-crop  to 
strike,  but  it  didn't  take  long  to  get  that  from  his  hand  or 
to  paralyse  the  arm  with  which  he  was  lunging  out  at  me. 

And  then,  seizing  him  by  the  white  stock  at  his  throat,  I 
thrashed  him.  I  thrashed  him  as  I  should  have  thrashed  a 
vicious  ape.  I  thrashed  him  while  he  fumed  and  foamed,  and 
cursed  and  swore.  I  thrashed  him  while  he  cried  for  help, 
and  then  yelled  with  pain  and  whined  for  mercy.  I  thrashed 
him  under  the  eyes  of  his  ancestors,  the  mad,  bad  race  he 
came  from,  and  him  the  biggest  blackguard  of  them  all.  And 
then  I  flung  him  to  the  ground,  bruised  in  every  bone,  and 
his  hunting-crop  after  him. 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  court  for  an  Act  of  Divorce,"  I 
said.  "Pity  you  can't  take  something  to  back  you,  so  take 
that,  and  say  I  gave  it  you." 

I  was  turning  towards  the  door  when  I  heard  a  low,  whin- 
ing cry,  like  that  of  a  captured  she-bear.  It  was  from  the 
woman.  The  wretched  creature  was  on  her  knees  at  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room,  apparently  mumbling  prayers, 
as  if  in  terror  that  her  own  turn  might  be  coming  next. 

In  her  sobbing  fear  I  thought  she  looked  more  than  ever 
like  a  poisonous  snake,  and  I  will  not  say  that  the  old  impulse 
to  put  my  foot  on  it  did  not  come  back  for  a  moment.  But  I 
only  said  as  I  passed,  pointing  to  the  writhing  worm  on  the 
floor: 

"Look  at  him,  madame.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  nobleman, 
and  him  of  you." 

Then  I  opened  the  door,  and  notwithstanding  the  grim 
business  I  had  been  going  through,  I  could  have  laughed  at 
the  scene  outside. 

There  was  old  Tommy  with  his  back  to  the  dining-room 
door,  his  Glengarry  awry  on  his  tousled  head,  and  his  bandy 
legs  stretched  firmly  apart,  flourishing  his  big-headed  black- 


I  AM  FOUND  523 

thorn  before  the  faces  of  the  three  powdered  footmen,  and 
inviting  them  to  "come  on." 

''Come  on,  now,  you  bleating  ould  billy-goats,  come  on, 
come  on!" 

I  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  away,  but  lit  a  cigar  in  front  of  the 
house  while  the  chauffeur  was  starting  the  motor  and  Tommy 
was  wiping  his  steaming  forehead  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

All  the  way  home  the  old  man  talked  without  ceasing, 
sometimes  to  me,  and  sometimes  to  the  world  in  general. 

"You  gave  him  a  piece  of  your  mind,  didn't  you?"  he 
asked,  with  a  wink  of  his  "starboard  eye." 

"I  believe  I  did,"  I  answered. 

"I  allus  said  you  would.  'Wait  till  himself  is  after  com- 
ing home,  and  it'll  be  the  devil  sit  up  for  some  of  them,' 
says  I." 

There  was  only  one  limitation  to  Tommy's  satisfaction  over 
our  day's  expedition — that  he  had  not  cracked  the  powdered 
skulls  of  "some  o'  them  riddiclus  dunkeys. " 

[END  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  NINTH  CHAPTER 

ANOTHER  month  passed,  and  then  began  the  last  and  most 
important  phase  of  my  too  changeful  story. 

Every  week  Martin  had  been  coming  and  going  between 
Elian  and  London,  occupied  when  he  was  away  with  the 
business  of  his  next  Expedition  (for  which  Parliament  had 
voted  a  large  sum),  and  when  he  was  at  home  with  reports, 
diaries,  charts,  maps,  and  photographs  toward  a  book  he 
was  writing  about  his  last  one. 

As  for  myself,  I  had  been  (or  tried  to  think  I  had  been) 
entirely  happy.  With  fresh  air,  new  milk,  a  sweet  bedroom, 
and  above  all,  good  and  tender  nursing  (God  bless  Christian 
Ann  for  all  she  did  for  me ! ) ,  my  health  had  improved  every 
day — or  perhaps,  by  that  heavenly  hopefulness  which  goes 
with  certain  maladies,  it  had  seemed  to  me  to  do  so. 

Yet  mine  was  a  sort  of  twilight  happiness,  nevertheless. 
Though  the  sun  was  always  shining  in  my  sky,  it  was  fre- 
quently under  eclipse.  In  spite  of  the  sheltered  life  I  lived 
in  that  home  of  charity  and  love,  I  was  never  entirely  free 
from  a  certain  indefinable  uneasiness  about  my  position. 

I  was  always  conscious,  too,  that  Martin's  mother  and 
father,  not  to  speak  of  Father  Dan,  were  suffering  from  a 


524  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

similar  feeling,  for  sometimes  when  we  talked  about  the 
future  their  looks  would  answer  to  my  thoughts,  and  it  was 
just  as  if  we  were  all  silently  waiting,  waiting,  waiting  for 
some  event  that  was  to  justify  and  rehabilitate  me. 

It  came  at  last — for  me  with  a  startling  suddenness. 

One  morning,  nurse  being  out  on  an  errand  and  Christian 
Ann  patting  her  butter  in  the  dairy,  I  was  playing  with 
baby  on  the  rag-work  hearthrug  when  our  village  newsman 
came  to  the  threshold  of  the  open  door. 

"Take  a  Times,"  he  said.  "You  might  as  well  be  out  of 
the  world,  ma'am,  as  not  know  what's  going  on  in  it." 

I  took  one  of  his  island  newspapers,  and  after  he  had  gone 
I  casually  glanced  at  it. 

But  what  a  shock  it  gave  me!  The  first  heading  that  flew 
in  my  face  was — 

"INSULAR  DIVORCE  BILL  PASSED." 

It  was  a  report  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
our  Elian  legislature,  which  (notwithstanding  the  opposition 
of  its  ecclesiastical  members)  had  granted  my  husband's 
petition. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  had  a  sense  of  immense  relief. 
Or  perhaps  I  should  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  there  and 
then,  and  thanked  God  that  the  miserable  entanglement  of 
the  horrible  marriage  that  had  been  forced  upon  me  was  at 
last  at  an  end. 

But  no,  I  had  only  one  feeling  as  the  newspaper  fell  from 
my  fingers — shame  and  humiliation,  not  for  myself  (for  what 
did  it  matter  about  me,  anyway?),  but  for  Martin,  whose 
name,  now  so  famous,  I  had,  through  my  husband's  malice, 
been  the  means  of  dragging  through  the  dust. 

I  remember  that  I  thought  I  should  never  be  able  to  look 
into  my  darling's  face  again,  that  when  he  came  in  the  after- 
noon (as  he  always  did)  I  should  have  to  run  away  from 
him,  and  that  all  that  was  left  to  me  was  to  hide  myself  and 
die. 

But  just  as  these  wild  thoughts  were  galloping  through  my 
brain  I  heard  the  sneck  of  the  garden  gate,  and  almost  before 
I  was  aware  of  what  else  was  happening  Martin  had  come 
sweeping  into  the  house  like  a  rush  of  wind,  thrown  his  arms 
around  me,  and  covered  my  face,  my  neck,  and  my  hands 
with  kisses — never  having  done  so  before  since  I  came  to  live 
at  his  mother's  home. 


I  AM  FOUND  525 

"Such  news!  Such  news!"  he  cried.  "We  are  free,  free, 
free!" 

Then,  seeing  the  newspaper  at  my  feet  on  the  floor,  he  said : 

"Ah,  I  see  you  know  already.  I  told  them  to  keep  every- 
thing away  from  you — all  the  miserable  legal  business.  But 
no  matter!  It's  over  now.  Of  course  it's  shocking — per- 
fectly shocking — that  that  squirming  worm,  after  his  gross 
infidelities,  should  have  been  able  to  do  what  he  has  done. 
But  what  matter  about  that  either?  He  has  done  just  what 
we  wanted — what  you  couldn  't  do  for  yourself  before  I  went 
away,  your  conscience  forbidding  you.  The  barrier  that  has 
divided  us  is  down  .  .  .  now  we  can  be  married  at  any 
time." 

I  was  so  overcome  by  Martin's  splendid  courage,  so  afraid 
to  believe  fully  that  the  boundless  relief  I  had  looked  for 
so  long  had  come  to  me  at  last,  that  for  some  time  I  could 
not  speak.  And  when  I  did  speak,  though  my  heart  was 
clamouring  loud,  I  only  said: 

"But  do  you  really  think  that  .  .  .  that  we  can  now  be 
husband  and  wife?" 

"Think  it?"  he  cried,  with  a  peal  of  laughter.  "I  should 
think  I  do  think  it.  What's  to  prevent  us?  Nothing! 
You've  suffered  enough,  my  poor  girl.  But  all  that  you 
have  gone  through  has  to  be  forgotten,  and  you  are  never 
to  look  back  again." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  I  should  be  happy,  very  happy,"  I  said, 
"but  what  about  you?" 

"Me?" 

"I  looked  forward  to  being  a  help — at  least  not  a  trouble 
to  you,  Martin." 

"And  so  you  will  be.     Why  shouldn't  you?" 

"Martin,"  I  said  (I  knew  what  I  was  doing,  but  I  couldn't 
help  doing  it),  "wouldn't  it  injure  you  to  marry  me  .  .  . 
being  what  I  am  now  ...  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  I 
mean?" 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if  trying  to  catch  my 
meaning,  and  then  snatched  me  still  closer  to  his  breast. 

"Mary,"  he  cried,  "don't  ask  me  to  consider  what  the 
damnable  insincerities  of  society  may  say  to  a  case  like  ours. 
If  you  don't  care,  then  neither  do  I.  And  as  for  the  world, 
by  the  Lord  God  I  swear  that  all  I  ask  of  it  I  am  now  holding 
in  my  arms." 

That  conquered  me — poor  trembling  hypocrite  that  I  was, 


526 

praying  with  all  my  soul  that  my  objections  would  be  over- 
come. 

In  another  moment  I  had  thrown  my  arms  about  my 
Martin's  neck  and  kissed  and  kissed  him,  feeling  for  the 
first  time  after  my  months  and  years  of  fiery  struggle  that  in 
the  eyes  of  God  and  man  I  had  a  right  to  do  so. 

And  oh  dear,  oh  dear!  When  Martin  had  gone  back  to 
his  work,  what  foolish  rein  I  gave  to  my  new-born  rapture ! 

I  picked  baby  up  from  the  hearthrug  and  kissed  her  also, 
and  then  took  her  into  the  dairy  to  be  kissed  by  her  grand- 
mother, who  must  have  overheard  what  had  passed  between 
Martin  and  me,  for  I  noticed  that  her  voice  had  suddenly 
become  livelier  and  at  least  an  octave  higher. 

Then,  baby  being  sleepy,  I  took  her  upstairs  for  her  morn- 
ing nap,  and  after  leaning  over  her  cradle,  in  the  soft,  damp, 
milk-like  odour  of  her  sweet  body  and  breath,  I  stood  up 
before  the  glass  and  looked  at  my  own  hot,  tingling,  blushing 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes. 

Oh,  what  gorgeous  dreams  of  happiness  came  to  me!  I 
may  have  been  the  unmarried  mother  of  a  child,  but  my 
girlhood — my  lost  girlhood — was  flowing  back  upon  me.  A 
vision  of  my  marriage-day  rose  up  before  me  and  I  saw  my- 
self as  a  bride,  in  my  bridal  veil  and  blossoms. 

How  happy  I  was  going  to  be!  But  indeed  I  felt  just  then 
as  if  I  had  always  been  happy.  It  was  almost  as  though 
some  blessed  stream  of  holy  water  had  washed  my  memory 
clean  of  all  the  soilure  of  my  recent  days  in  London,  for  sure 
I  am  that  if  anybody  had  at  that  moment  mentioned  Ilford 
and  the  East  End,  the  bricklayer  and  the  Jew,  or  spoken  of 
the  maternity  homes  and  the  orphanages,  I  should  have 
screamed. 

Towards  noon  the  old  doctor  came  back  from  his  morning 
rounds,  and  I  noticed  that  his  voice  was  pitched  higher  too. 
We  never  once  spoke  about  the  great  news,  the  great  event, 
while  we  sat  at  table;  but  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  we 
were  all  talking  loud  and  fast  and  on  the  top  of  each  other, 
as  if  some  dark  cloud  which  had  hovered  over  our  household 
had  suddenly  slid  away. 

After  luncheon,  nurse  being  back  with  baby,  I  went  out 
for  a  walk  alone,  feeling  wonderfully  well  and  light,  and 
having  two  hours  to  wait  for  Martin,  who  must  be  still 
pondering  over  his  papers  at  the  "Plough." 

How  beautiful  was  the  day!     How  blue  the  sky!     How 


I  AM  FOUND  527 

bright  the  earth!  How  joyous  the  air — so  sweet  and  so 
full  of  song-birds! 

I  remember  that  I  thought  life  had  been  so  good  to  me 
that  I  ought  to  be  good  to  everybody  else — especially  to  my 
father,  from  whom  it  seemed  wrong  for  a  daughter  to  be 
estranged,  whatever  he  was  and  whatever  he  had  done  to 
her. 

So  I  turned  my  face  towards  my  poor  grandmother's  re- 
stored cottage  on  the  curragh,  fully  determined  to  be  recon- 
ciled to  my  father;  and  I  only  slackened  my  steps  and  gave 
up  my  purpose  when  I  began  to  think  of  Nessy  MacLeod  and 
how  difficult  (perhaps  impossible)  it  might  be  to  reach  him. 

Even  then  I  faced  about  for  a  moment  to  the  Big  House 
with  some  vain  idea  of  making  peace  with  Aunt  Bridget  and 
then  slipping  upstairs  to  my  mother's  room — having  such  a 
sense  of  joyous  purity  that  I  wished  to  breathe  the  sacred  air 
my  blessed  saint  had  lived  in. 

But  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  I  found  myself  on  the  steps 
of  the  Presbytery,  feeling  breathlessly  happy,  and  telling 
myself,  with  a  little  access  of  pride  in  my  own  gratitude,  that 
it  was  only  right  and  proper  that  I  should  bring  my  happi- 
ness where  I  had  so  often  brought  my  sorrow — to  the  dear 
priest  who  had  been  my  friend  since  the  day  of  my  birth 
and  my  darling  mother's  friend  before. 

Poor  old  Father  Dan!  How  good  I  was  going  to  be  to 
him! 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  TENTH  CHAPTER 

A  PEW  minutes  afterwards  I  was  tripping  upstairs  (love  and 
hope  work  wonderful  miracles!)  behind  the  Father's  Irish 
housekeeper,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  who  was  telling  me  how  well  I 
was  looking  ("smart  and  well  extraordinary"),  asking  if  it 
"was  on  my  two  feet  I  had  walked  all  the  way,"  and  de- 
nouncing the  "omathauns"  who  had  been  "after  telling  her 
there  wasn't  the  width  of  a  wall  itself  betune  me  and  the 
churchyard. ' ' 

I  found  Father  Dan  in  his  cosy  study  lined  with  books; 
and  being  so  much  wrapped  up  in  my  own  impetuous  happi- 
ness, I  did  not  see  at  first  that  he  was  confused  and  nervous, 
or  remember  until  next  day  that,  though  (at  the  sound  of  my 
voice  from  the  landing)  he  cried  "Come  in,  my  child,  come 
in, ' '  he  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door  as  I  entered — 


528  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

hiding  something  (it  must  have  been  a  newspaper)  under 
the  loose  seat  of  his  easy-chair. 

"Father,"  I  said,  "have  you  heard  the  news?" 

"The  news.    ..." 

' '  I  mean  the  news  in  the  newspaper. ' ' 

"Ah,  the  news  in  the  newspaper." 

' '  Isn  't  it  glorious  ?  That  terrible  marriage  is  over  at  last ! 
Without  my  doing  anything,  either !  Do  you  remember  what 
you  said  the  last  time  I  came  here?" 

"The  last  time.    ..." 

"You  said  that  I,  being  a  Catholic,  could  not  break  my 
marriage  without  breaking  my  faith.  But  my  husband,  being 
a  Protestant,  had  no  compunction.  So  it  has  come  to  the 
same  thing  in  the  end,  you  see.  And  now  I'm  free." 

"You're  free    .    .    .    free,  are  you?" 

"It  seems  they  have  been  keeping  it  all  away  from  me — 
making  no  defence,  I  suppose — and  it  was  only  this  morning 
I  heard  the  news." 

"Only  this  morning,  was  it?" 

"I  first  saw  it  in  a  newspaper,  but  afterwards  Martin 
himself  came  to  tell  me." 

"Martin  came,  did  he?" 

' '  He  doesn  't  care  in  the  least ;  in  fact,  he  is  glad,  and  says 
we  can  be  married  at  any  time." 

"Married  at  any  time — he  says  that,  does  he?" 

"Of  course  nothing  is  arranged  yet,  dear  Father,  but  I 
couldn  't  help  coming^  to  see  you  about  it.  I  want  everything 
to  be  simple  and  quiet — no  display  of  any  kind." 

' '  Simple  and  quiet,  do  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Early  in  the  morning — immediately  after  mass,  perhaps. ' ' 

"Immediately  after  mass.    .    .    .  " 

"Only  a  few  wild  flowers  on  the  altar,  and  the  dear  homely 
souls  who  love  me  gathered  around." 

"The  dear,  homely  souls.    ..." 

' '  It  will  be  a  great,  great  thing  for  me,  but  I  don 't  want  to 
force  myself  upon  anybody,  or  to  triumph  over  any  one — 
least  of  all  over  my  poor  father,  now  that  he  is  so  sick  and 
down. ' ' 

"No,  no    ...    now  that  he  is  so  sick  and  down." 

' '  I  shall  want  you  to  marry  us,  Daddy  Dan — not  the  Bishop 
or  anybody  else  of  that  kind,  you  know." 

' '  You  '11  want  me  to  marry  you — not  the  Bishop  or  anybody 
else  of  that  kind." 


I  AM  FOUND  529 

"But  Father  Dan,"  I  cried,  laughing  a  little  uneasily  (for 
I  had  begun  to  realise  that  he  was  only  repeating  my  own 
words),  "why  don't  you  say  something  for  yourself?" 

And  then  the  cheery  sunshine  of  the  cosy  room  began  to 
fade  away. 

Father  Dan  fumbled  the  silver  cross  which  hung  over  his 
cassock  (a  sure  sign  of  his  nervousness),  and  said  with  a 
grave  face  and  in  a  voice  all  a-tremble  with  emotion: 

"My  child.    ..." 

"Yes?" 

"You  believe  that  I  wouldn't  pain  or  distress  or  shock 
you  if  I  could  avoid  it?" 

"Indeed  I  do." 

"Yet  I  am  going  to  pain  and  distress  and  shock  you  now. 
I  ...  I  cannot  marry  you  to  Martin  Conrad.  I  daren  't. 
The  Church  thinks  that  you  are  married  already — that  you 
are  still  the  wife  of  your  husband." 

Though  my  dear  priest  had  dealt  me  my  death-blow,  I  had 
not  yet  begun  to  feel  it,  so  I  smiled  up  into  his  troubled  old 
face  and  said: 

"But  how  can  the  Church  think  that,  dear  Father?  My 
husband  has  no  rights  over  me  now,  and  no  duties  or  responsi- 
bilities with  respect  to  me.  He  can  marry  again  if  he  likes. 
And  he  will,  I  am  sure  he  will,  and  nobody  can  prevent 
him.  How,  then,  can  the  Church  say  that  I  am  still  hia 
wife?" 

"Because  marriage,  according  to  the  law  of  the  Church, 
can  only  be  dissolved  by  death, ' '  said  Father  Dan.  ' '  Haven 't 
I  told  you  that  before,  my  daughter?  Didn't  we  go  over  it 
again  and  again  when  you  were  here  the  last  time?" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  I  thought  if  somebody  else  sought  the 
divorce — somebody  who  had  never  believed  in  the  indis- 
solubility  of  marriage  and  wasn't  bound  by  the  law  of  the 
Church  .  .  .  we've  heard  of  cases  of  that  kind,  haven't 
we?" 

Father  Dan  shook  his  head. 

"My  poor  child,  no.  The  Church  thinks  marriage  is  a 
sacred  covenant  which  no  difference  of  belief,  no  sin  on  either 
side,  can  ever  break." 

"But,  Father,"  I  cried,  "don't  you  see  that  the  law  has 
already  broken  it?" 

"Only  the  civil  law,  my  daughter.  Remember  the  words 
of  our  blessed  and  holy  Redeemer:  'Every  one  that  putteth 

2L 


530  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

away  Ms  wife  and  marrieth  another  committeth  adultery;  and 
he  that  marrieth  one  that  is  put  away  committeth  adultery.' 
.  .  .  My  poor  child,  my  heart  bleeds  for  you,  but  isn't 
that  the  Divine  Commandment?" 

"Then  you  think,"  I  said  (the  room  was  becoming  dark 
and  I  could  feel  my  lip  trembling),  "you  think  that  because 
I  went  through  that  marriage  ceremony  two  years  ago  .  .  . 
and  though  the  civil  law  has  dissolved  it  ...  you  think 
I  am  still  bound  by  it,  and  will  continue  to  be  so  .  .  .  to 
the  end  of  my  life?" 

Father  Dan  plucked  at  his  cassock,  fumbled  his  print 
handkerchief,  and  replied: 

"I  am  sorry,  my  child,  very,  very  sorry." 

"Father  Dan,"  I  said  sharply,  for  by  this  tune  my  heart 
was  beginning  to  blaze,  "have  you  thought  about  Martin? 
Aren't  you  afraid  that  if  our  Church  refuses  to  marry  us  he 
may  ask  some  other  church  to  do  so?" 

"Christ's  words  must  be  the  final  law  for  all  true  Chris- 
tians, my  daughter.  And  besides.  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"Besides  that.     .     .     ." 

"Yes?" 

"It  blisters  my  tongue  to  say  it,  my  child,  knowing  your 
sufferings  and  great  temptations,  but.  .  .  ." 

"But  what,  dear  Father?" 

"You  are  in  the  position  of  the  guilty  party,  and  there- 
fore no  good  clergyman  of  any  Christian  Church  in  the 
world,  following  the  Commandment  of  his  Master,  would 
dare  to  marry  you." 

What  happened  after  that  I  cannot  exactly  say.  I  re- 
member that,  feeling  the  colour  flying  to  my  face,  I  flung 
up  my  hands  to  cover  it,  and  that  when  I  came  to  full 
possession  of  my  senses  again  Father  Dan  (himself  in  a 
state  of  great  agitation)  was  smoothing  my  arms  and  com- 
forting me. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  your  old  priest  for  telling  you 
the  truth — the  bitter  truth,  my  daughter." 

He  had  always  seen  this  dark  hour  coming  to  him,  and 
again  and  again  he  had  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  it — in 
the  long  nights  of  his  fruitless  wanderings  when  I  was  lost  in 
London,  and  again  since  I  had  been  found  and  had  come 
home  and  he  had  looked  on,  with  many  a  pang,  at  our  silent 
hopes  and  expectations — Martin's  and  mine,  we  two  children. 


I  AM  FOUND  531 

"And  when  you  came  into  my  little  den  to-day,  my 
daughter,  with  a  face  as  bright  as  stars  and  diamonds,  God 
knows  I  would  have  given  half  of  what  is  left  of  my  life  that 
mine  should  not  be  the  hand  to  dash  the  cup  of  your  happi- 
ness away." 

As  soon  as  I  was  sufficiently  composed,  within  and  without, 
Father  Dan  led  me  downstairs  (praying  God  and  His  Holy 
Mother  to  strengthen  me  on  my  solitary  way) ,  and  then  stood 
at  the  door  in  his  cassock  to  watch  me  while  I  walked  up 
the  road. 

It  was  hardly  more  than  half  an  hour  since  I  had  passed 
over  the  ground  before,  yet  in  that  short  tune  the  world 
seemed  to  have  become  pale  and  grey — the  sun  gone  out, 
the  earth  grown  dark,  the  still  air  joyless,  nothing  left  but 
the  everlasting  heavens  and  the  heavy  song  of  the  sea. 

As  I  approached  the  doctor's  house  Martin  came  swinging 
down  the  road  to  meet  me,  with  his  strong  free  step  and  that 
suggestion  of  the  wind  from  the  mountain-tops  which  seemed 
to  be  always  about  him. 

"Hello!"  he  cried.  "Thought  you  were  lost  and  been 
hunting  all  over  the  place  for  you." 

But  as  he  came  nearer  and  saw  how  white  and  wan  my 
face  was,  though  I  was  doing  my  best  to  smile,  he  stopped 
and  said: 

"My  poor  little  woman,  where  have  you  been,  and  what 
have  they  been  doing  to  you?" 

And  then,  as  well  as  I  could,  I  told  him. 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  ELEVENTH  CHAPTER 

"IT'S  all  my  fault,"  he  said. 

He  had  led  me  to  the  garden-house,  which  stood  among 
the  bluebells  at  the  end  of  the  orchard,  and  was  striding  to 
and  fro  in  front  of  it. 

"I  knew  perfectly  what  the  attitude  of  the  Church  would 
be,  and  I  ought  to  have  warned  you." 

I  had  never  before  seen  him  so  excited.  There  was  a  wild 
look  in  his  eyes  and  his  voice  was  quivering  like  the  string 
of  a  bow. 

"Poor  old  Father  Dan!  He's  an  old  angel,  with  as  good 
a  heart  as  ever  beat  under  a  cassock.  But  what  a  slave  a 
man  may  be  to  the  fetish  of  his  faith !  Only  think  what  he 
says,  my  darling!  The  guilty  party!  Ill  never  believe 


532  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

you  are  the  guilty  party,  but  consider!  The  guilty  party 
may  never  marry!  No  good  clergyman  of  any  Christian 
Church  in  the  world  dare  marry  her!  What  an  infamy! 
Ask  yourself  what  the  churches  are  here  for.  Aren't  they 
here  to  bring  salvation  to  the  worst  of  sinners?  Yet  they 
cast  out  the  woman  who  has  sinned  against  her  marriage 
vow — denying  her  access  to  the  altar  and  turning  her  out  of 
doors — though  she  may  have  repented  a  thousand  times, 
with  bitter,  bitter  tears!" 

He  walked  two  or  three  paces  in  front  of  the  garden-house 
and  then  came  back  to  me  with  naming  eyes. 

"But  that's  not  your  case,  anyway,"  he  said.  " Father 
Dan  knows  perfectly  that  your  marriage  was  no  marriage  at 
all — only  a  sordid  bit  of  commercial  bargaining,  in  which 
your  husband  .gave  you  his  bad  name  for  your  father's  un- 
clean money.  It  was  no  marriage  in  any  other  sense  either, 
and  might  have  been  annulled  if  there  had  been  any  common 
honesty  in  annulment.  And  now  that  it  has  tumbled  to 
wreck  and  ruin,  as  anybody  might  have  seen  it  would  do, 
you  are  told  that  you  are  bound  to  it  to  the  last  day  and  hoar 
of  your  life !  After  all  you  have  gone  through — all  you  have 
suffered — never  to  know  another  hour  of  happiness  as  long 
as  you  live!  While  your  husband,  notwithstanding  his 
brutalities  and  infidelities,  is  free  to  do  what  he  likes,  to 
marry  whom  he  pleases!  How  stupid!  How  disgusting! 
How  damnable!" 

His  passionate  voice  was  breaking,  he  could  scarcely  control 
it. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  they'll  say.  It  will  be  the  old,  old  song, 
'Whom  God  hath  joined  together.'  That's  what  this  old 
Church  of  ours  has  been  saying  for  centuries  to  poor  women 
with  broken  hearts.  Has  the  Church  itself  got  a  heart  to 
break?  No — nothing  but  its  cast-iron  laws  which  have 
been  broken  a  thousand  times  and  nobody  a  penny  the  worse." 

"But  I  wonder,"  he  continued,  "I  wonder  why  these 
churchmen,  who  would  talk  about  the  impossibility  of  putting 
asunder  those  whom  God  has  joined  together,  don't  begin  by 
asking  themselves  how  and  when  and  where  God  joins  them. 
Is  it  in  church,  when  they  stand  before  the  altar  and  are  asked 
a  few  questions,  and  give  a  few  answers?  If  so,  then  God  is 
responsible  for  some  of  the  most  shocking  transactions  that 
ever  disgraced  humanity — all  the  pride  and  vanity  and 
deliberate  concubinage  that  have  covered  themselves  in  every 


I  AM  FOUND  533 

age,  and  are  covering  themselves  still,  with  the  cloak  of 
marriage. ' ' 

"But  no,"  said  Martin,  "it's  not  in  churches  that  God 
marries  people.  They've  got  to  be  married  before  they  go 
there,  or  they  are  never  married  at  all — never!  They've 
got  to  be  married  in  their  hearts,  for  that's  where  God  joins 
people  together,  not  in  churches  and  before  priests  and 
altars." 

I  sat  listening  to  him  with  a  rising  and  throbbing  heart, 
and  after  another  moment  he  stepped  into  the  garden-house, 
and  sat  beside  me. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  in  his  passionate  voice,  "that's  our  case, 
isn't  it?  God  married  us  from  the  very  first.  There  has 
never  been  any  other  woman  for  me,  and  there  never  has 
been  any  other  man  for  you — isn't  that  so,  my  darling? 
.  .  .  Then  what  are  they  talking  about — these  churches 
and  churchmen  ?  It 's  they  who  are  the  real  divorcers — trying 
to  put  those  asunder  whom  God  Himself  has  joined  together. 
That's  the  plain  sense  of  the  matter,  isn't  it?" 

I  was  trembling  with  fear  and  expectation.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  same  with  me  as  it  had  been  before;  perhaps  I  wanted 
(now  more  than  ever)  to  believe  what  Martin  was  saying; 
perhaps  I  did  not  know  enough  to  be  able  to  answer  him; 
perhaps  my  overpowering  love  and  the  position  I  stood  in 
compelled  me  to  agree.  But  I  could  not  help  it  if  it  seemed 
to  me  that  his  clear  mind — clear  as  a  mountain  river  and 
as  swift  and  strong — was  sweeping  away  all  the  worn-out 
sophistries. 

"Then  what    .     .     .    what  are  we  to  do?"  I  asked  him. 

"Do?  Our  duty  to  ourselves,  my  darling,  that's  what  we 
have  to  do.  If  we  cannot  be  married  according  to  the  law  of 
the  Church,  we  must  be  married  according  to  the  law  of  the 
land.  Isn't  that  enough?  This  is  our  own  affair,  dearest, 
ours  and  nobody  else's.  It's  only  a  witness  we  want  anyway — 
a  witness  before  God  and  man  that  we  intend  to  be  man  and 
wife  in  future." 

"But  Father  Dan?" 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  said  Martin.  "I'll  tell  him  every- 
thing. But  come  into  the  house  now.  You  are  catching  a 
cold.  Unless  we  take  care  they'll  kill  you  before  they've 
done." 

Next  day  he  leaned  over  the  back  of  my  chair  as  I  sat 
in  the  chiollagh  with  baby  in  my  lap,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone : 


534  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"I've  seen  Father  Dan." 

"Well?" 

' '  The  old  angel  took  it  badly.  '  God  forbid  that  you  should 
do  that  same,  my  boy/  he  said,  'putting  both  yourself  and 
that  sweet  child  of  mine  out  of  the  Church  for  ever.'  'It's 
the  Church  that's  putting  us  out,'  I  told  him.  'But  God's 
holy  law  condemns  it,  my  son,'  he  said.  'God's  law  is  love; 
and  He  has  no  other  law, '  I  answered. ' ' 

I  was  relieved  and  yet  nervous,  glad  and  yet  afraid. 

A  week  passed,  and  then  the  time  came  for  Martin  to  go 
to  Windsor  for  his  investiture.  There  had  been  great  excite- 
ment in  Sunny  Lodge  in  preparation  for  this  event,  but  being 
a  little  unwell  I  had  been  out  of  the  range  of  it. 

At  the  moment  of  Martin's  departure  I  was  in  bed,  and 
he  had  come  upstairs  to  say  good-bye  to  me. 

What  had  been  happening  in  the  meantime  I  hardly  knew, 
but  I  had  gathered  that  he  thought  pressure  would  be  brought 
to  bear  on  me. 

"Our  good  old  Church  is  like  a  limpet  on  the  shore,"  he 
said.  "Once  it  gets  its  suckers  down  it  doesn't  let  go  in  a 
hurry.  But  sit  tight,  little  woman.  Don't  yield  an  inch 
while  I'm  away,"  he  whispered. 

When  he  left  me  I  reached  up  to  see  him  going  down  the 
road  to  the  railway  station.  His  old  father  was  walking 
proudly  by  his  side,  bare-headed  as  usual  and  still  as  blithe 
as  a  boy. 

Next  day  I  was  startled  by  an  unexpected  telegram.  It 
came  from  a  convent  in  Lancashire  and  was  addressed  to 
"Mary  O'Neill,  care  of  Doctor  Conrad."  It  ran: 

"Am  making  a  round  of  visits  to  the  houses  of  our  Society 
and  would  like  to  see  you  on  my  way  to  Ireland.  May  I  cross 
to-morrow?  Mother  Magdalene." 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  TWELFTH  CHAPTER 

SHE  arrived  the  following  afternoon — my  dear  Reverend 
Mother  with  the  pale  spiritual  face  and  saint-like  eyes. 

Except  that  her  habit  was  now  blue  and  white  instead  of 
black,  she  seemed  hardly  changed  in  any  respect  since  our 
days  at  the  Sacred  Heart. 

Finding  that  I  was  in  bed,  she  put  up  at  the  "Plough" 
and  came  every  day  to  nurse  me. 

I  was  naturally  agitated  at  seeing  her  again  after  so  many 


I  AM  FOUND  535 

years  and  such  various  experiences,  being  uncertain  how  much 
she  knew  of  them. 

Remembering  Martin's  warning,  I  was  also  fairly  certain 
that  she  had  been  sent  for,  but  my  uneasiness  on  both  heads 
soon  wore  off. 

Her  noiseless  step,  her  soft  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile 
soothed  and  comforted  me.  I  began  to  feel  afresh  the  in- 
fluence she  had  exercised  over  me  when  I  was  a  child,  and  to 
wonder  why,  during  my  dark  time  in  Londo*n,  I  had  never 
thought  of  writing  to  her. 

During  the  first  days  of  her  visit  she  said  nothing  about 
painful  things — never  mentioning  my  marriage,  or  what  had 
happened  since  she  saw  me  last. 

Her  talk  was  generally  about  our  old  school  and  my  old 
schoolfellows,  many  of  whom  came  to  the  convent  for  her 
"retreats,"  which  were  under  the  spiritual  direction  of  one 
of  the  Pope's  domestic  prelates. 

Sometimes  she  would  laugh  about  our  Mother  of  the 
Novices  who  had  "become  old  and  naggledy";  sometimes 
about  the  little  fat  Maestro  of  the  Pope's  choir  who  had  cried 
when  I  first  sang  the  hymn  to  the  Virgin,  ("Go  on,  little 
angel,")  ;  and  sometimes  about  the  two  old  lay  sisters  (now 
quite  toothless)  who  still  said  I  might  have  been  a  "wonderful 
washerwoman"  if  I  had  "put  my  mind  to  it." 

I  hate  to  think  that  my  dear  Reverend  Mother  was  doing 
this  consciously  in  order  to  break  down  my  defences,  but  the 
effect  was  the  same.  Little  by  little,  during  the  few  days 
she  was  with  me,  she  bridged  the  space  back  to  my  happy 
girlhood,  for  insensibly  I  found  myself  stirred  by  the  emotions 
of  the  convent,  and  breathing  again  the  air  of  my  beloved 
Rome. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  of  her  visit  I  was  sitting 
up  by  her  side  in  front  of  my  window,  which  was  wide  open. 
It  was  just  such  a  peaceful  evening  as  our  last  one  at  Nemi. 
Not  a  leaf  was  stirring;  not  a  breath  of  wind  in  the  air;  the 
only  sounds  we  heard  were  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  waiting  to 
be  milked,  the  soft  murmur  of  the  sea,  and  the  jolting  of  a 
springless  cart  that  was  coming  up  from  the  shore,  laden  with 
sea  wrack. 

As  the  sun  began  to  sink  it  lit  blazing  fires  in  the  windows 
of  the  village  in  front — especially  in  the  window  of  my 
mother's  room,  which  was  just  visible  over  the  tops  of  the 
apple  trees  in  the  orchard. 


536  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

The  Reverend  Mother  talked  of  Benediction.  If  she  were 
in  Rome  she  would  be  in  church  singing  the  Ora  pro  nobis. 

"Let  us  sing  it  now.    Shall  we?"  she  said. 

At  the  next  moment  her  deep  majestic  contralto,  accom- 
panied by  my  own  thin  and  quavering  soprano,  were  sending 
out  into  the  silent  air  the  holy  notes  which  to  me  are  like 
the  reverberations  of  eternity: 

«       "Mater  puris&ima 
Ora  pro  nobis. 
Mater  castissima 
Ora  pro  nobis." 

"When  we  had  finished  I  found  my  hand  lying  in  her  lap. 
Patting  it  gently  she  said: 

"Mary,  I  am  leaving  you  to-morrow." 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  go  without  telling  you  why  I  came"- 
and  then  her  mission  was  revealed  to  me. 

She  had  heard  about  my  marriage  and  the  ruin  it  had 
fallen  to ;  my  disappearance  from  home  and  the  circumstances 
of  my  recovery;  my  husband's  petition  for  divorce  and  the 
disclosures  that  had  followed  it. 

But  sad  and  serious  and  even  tragic  as  all  this  might  be,  it 
was  as  nothing  (in  the  eyes  of  the  Church  and  of  God)  com- 
pared with  the  awful  gravity  of  the  step  I  now  contemplated 
— a  second  marriage  while  my  husband  was  still  alive. 

She  had  nothing  to  say  against  Martin.  Except  the  facts 
that  concerned  myself  she  had  never  heard  a  word  to  his  dis- 
credit. She  could  even  understand  those  facts,  though  she 
could  not  condone  them.  Perhaps  he  had  seen  my  position 
(married  to  a  cruel  and  unfaithful  husband)  and  his  pity  had 
developed  into  love — she  had  heard  of  such  happenings. 

"But  only  think,  my  child,  what  an  abyss  he  is  driving 
you  to!  He  asks  you  to  break  your  marriage  vows!  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  can  see  what  he  will  say — that  pressure  was 
put  upon  you  and  you  were  too  young  to  know  what  you 
were  doing.  That  may  be  true,  but  it  isn't  everything.  I 
thought  it  wrong,  cruelly  wrong,  that  your  father  should 
choose  a  husband  for  you  without  regard  to  your  wish  and 
will.  But  it  was  you,  not  your  father,  who  made  your  mar- 
riage vows,  and  you  can  never  get  away  from  that — never!" 

Those  marriage  vows  were  sacred;   our  blessed   Saviour 


I  AM  FOUND  537 

had  said  they  could  never  be  broken,  and  our  holy  Church  had 
taken  His  Commandment  for  law. 

"Think,  my  child,  only  think  what  would  happen  to  the 
world  if  every  woman  who  has  made  an  unhappy  marriage 
were  to  do  as  you  think  of  doing.  What  a  chaos!  What  an 
uprooting  of  all  the  sacred  ties  of  home  and  family!  And 
how  women  would  suffer — women  and  children  above  all. 
Don't  you  see  that,  my  daughter?" 

The  security  of  society  lay  in  the  sanctity  of  marriage ;  the 
sanctity  of  marriage  lay  in  its  indissolubility ;  and  its  indis- 
solubility  centred  in  the  fact  that  God  was  a  party  to  it. 

' '  Perhaps  you  are  told  that  your  marriage  will  be  your  own 
concern  only  and  that  God  and  the  Church  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  But  if  women  had  believed  that  in  all  ages,  how 
different  the  world  would  be  to-day!  Oh,  believe  me,  your 
marriage  vow  is  sacred,  and  you  cannot  break  it  without  sin 
— mortal  sin,  my  daughter." 

The  moral  of  all  this  was  that  I  must  renounce  Martin 
Conrad,  wash  my  heart  clean  of  my  love  of  him,  shun  the 
temptation  of  seeing  him  again,  and  if  possible  forget  him 
altogether. 

' '  It  will  be  hard.    I  know  it  will  be  hard,  but    ..." 

"It  will  be  quite  impossible,"  I  said  as  well  as  I  could,  for 
my  very  lips  were  trembling. 

I  had  been  shaken  to  the  depths  of  my  soul  by  what  the 
Keverend  Mother  said,  but  remembering  Martin's  warning 
I  now  struggled  to  resist  her. 

"Two  years  ago,  while  I  was  living  with  my  husband  I 
tried  to  do  that  and  I  couldn  't, "  I  said.  ' '  And  if  I  couldn  't 
do  it  then,  when  the  legal  barrier  stood  between  us,  how  can 
I  do  it  now  when  the  barrier  is  gone?" 

After  that  I  told  her  of  all  I  had  passed  through  since  as  a 
result  of  my  love  for  Martin — how  I  had  parted  from  him 
when  he  went  down  to  the  Antarctic;  how  I  had  waited  for 
him  in  London;  how  I  had  sacrificed  family  and  friends  and 
home,  and  taken  up  poverty  and  loneliness  and  hard  work  for 
him ;  how  I  had  fallen  into  fathomless  depths  of  despair  when 
I  thought  I  had  lost  him;  and  how  joy  and  happiness  had 
returned  only  when  God,  in  His  gracious  goodness,  had  given 
him  back. 

"No,  no,  no,"  I  cried.  "My  love  for  Martin  can  never  be 
overcome  or  forgotten — never  as  long  as  I  live  in  the  world ! ' ' 

"Then,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother  (she  had  been  listen- 


538  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

ing  intently  with  her  great  eyes  fixed  on  my  hot  and  tingling 
face),  "then,"  she  said,  in  her  grave  and  solemn  voice,  "if 
that  is  the  case,  my  child,  there  is  only  one  thing  for  you  to 
do — to  leave  it." 

"Leave  it?" 

"Leave  the  world,  I  mean.  Return  with  me  to  Rome  and 
enter  the  convent." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  how  this  affected  me — how  it 
shook  me  to  the  heart's  core — how,  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to 
act  on  my  darling's  warning,  it  seemed  to  penetrate  to  the 
inmost  part  of  my  being  and  to  waken  some  slumbering  in- 
stinct in  my  soul. 

For  a  long  time  I  sat  without  speaking  again,  only  listening 
with  a  fluttering  heart  to  what  the  Reverend  Mother  was  say- 
ing— that  it  was  one  of  the  objects  of  the  religious  life  to 
offer  refuge  to  the  tortured  soul  that  could  not  trust  itself 
to  resist  temptation;  and  that  taking  my  vows  as  a  nun  to 
God  would  be  the  only  way  (known  to  and  acknowledged  by 
the  Church)  of  cancelling  my  vows  as  a  wife  to  my  husband. 

"You  will  be  a  bride  still,  my  child,  but  a  bride  of  Christ. 
And  isn't  that  better — far  better?  You  used  to  wish  to  be  a 
nun,  you  know,  and  if  your  father  had  not  come  for  you  on 
that  most  unhappy  errand  you  might  have  been  one  of  our- 
selves already.  Think  of  it,  my  child.  The  Mothers  of  our 
convent  will  be  glad  to  welcome  you,  if  you  can  come  as  a 
willing  and  contented  Sister.  And  how  can  I  leave  you 
here,  at  the  peril  of  your  soul,  my  daughter?" 

I  was  deeply  moved,  but  I  made  one  more  effort. 

I  told  the  Reverend  Mother  that,  since  the  days  when  I  had 
wished  to  be  a  nun,  a  great  change  had  come  over  me.  I  had 
become  a  woman,  with  all  a  woman's  passions — the  hunger 
and  thirst  for  love,  human  love,  the  love  of  the  good  man  who 
loved  me  with  all  his  soul  and  strength.  Therefore  I  could 
never  be  a  willing  and  contented  Sister.  I  should  only  break 
the  peace  and  harmony  of  their  house.  And  though  she  were 
to  put  me  down  in  the  lowest  cell  of  her  convent,  my  love 
would  follow  me  there ;  it  would  interrupt  my  offices,  it  would 
clamour  through  my  prayers,  and  I  should  always  be  un- 
happy— miserably  unhappy. 

"Not  so  unhappy  there  as  you  will  be  if  you  remain  in  the 
world  and  carry  out  your  intention,"  said  the  Reverend 
Mother.  "Oh  believe  me,  my  child,  I  know  you  better  than 
you  know  yourself,  If  you  marry  again,  you  will  never  be 


I  AM  FOUND  539 

able  to  forget  that  you  have  broken  your  vow.  Other  women 
may  forget  it — frivolous  women — women  living  in  society  and 
devoting  their  lives  to  selfish  pleasures.  Such  women  may 
divorce  their  husbands,  or  be  divorced  by  them,  and  then 
marry  again,  without  remembering  that  they  are  living  in  a 
state  of  sin,  whatever  the  civil  law  may  say — open  and 
wicked  and  shameless  sin.  But  you  will  remember  it,  and  it 
will  make  you  more  unhappy  than  you  have  ever  been  in  your 
life  before." 

"Worse  than  that."  she  continued,  after  a  moment,  "it  will 
make  your  husband  unhappy  also.  He  will  see  your  remorse, 
and  share  it,  because  he  will  know  he  has  been  the  cause.  If 
he  is  a  good  man  the  mere  sight  of  your  grief  will  torture 
him.  The  better  man  he  is  the  more  will  he  suffer.  If  you 
were  a  runaway  nun  he  would  wish  to  take  you  back  to  your 
convent,  for  though  it  might  tear  his  heart  out  to  part  with 
you,  he  would  want  to  restore  your  soul.  But  being  a  wife 
who  has  broken  her  marriage  vows  he  will  never  be  able  to  do 
anything.  An  immense  and  awful  shadow  will  stand  be- 
tween you  and  darken  every  hour  of  your  lives  that  is  left. ' ' 

"When  the  Reverend  Mother  had  done  I  sat  motionless  and 
speechless,  with  an  aching  and  suffocating  heart,  staring  down 
on  the  garden  over  which  the  night  was  falling. 

After  a  while  she  patted  my  cold  hand  and  got  up  to  go. 
saying  she  would  call  early  in  the  morning  to  bid  me  good- 
bye. Her  visit  to  Ireland  would  not  last  longer  than  three 
weeks,  and  after  that  she  might  come  back  for  me,  if  I  felt  on 
reflection  (she  was  sure  I  should)  that  I  ought  to  return  with 
her  to  Rome. 

I  did  not  reply.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  because  I  was 
physically  weak  that  my  darling's  warning  was  so  nearly 
overcome.  But  the  moment  the  door  closed  on  the  Reverend 
Mother  a  conviction  of  the  truth  of  what  she  had  said  rushed 
upon  me  like  the  waves  of  an  overflowing  sea. 

Yet  how  cruel !  After  all  our  waiting,  all  our  longing,  all 
our  gorgeous  day-dreams  of  future  happiness!  When  I  was 
going  to  be  a  bride,  a  happy  bride,  with  my  lost  and  stolen 
girlhood  coming  back  to  me! 

For  the  second  time  a  dark  and  frowning  mountain  had 
risen  between  Martin  and  me.  Formerly  it  had  been  my 
marriage — now  it  was  my  God. 

But  if  God  forbade  my  marriage  with  Martin  what  was  I 


540  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

to  do?  What  was  left  in  life  for  me?  Was  there  anything 
left? 

I  was  sitting  with  both  hands  over  my  face,  asking  myself 
these  questions  and  struggling  with  a  rising  tempest  of 
tears,  when  I  heard  baby  crying  in  the  room  below,  and 
Christian  Ann  hushing  and  comforting  her. 

"What's  doing  on  the  boght,  I  wonder?" 

A  few  minutes  later  they  came  upstairs,  Isabel  on  her 
grandmother's  arm,  in  her  nightdress,  ready  for  bed. 

"If  it  isn't  the  wind  I  don't  know  in  the  world  what's 
doing  on  the  millish,"  said  the  old  lady. 

And  then  baby  smiled  through  the  big  round  beads  that 
stood  in  her  sea-blue  eyes  and  held  out  her  arms  to  me. 

Oh  God!     Oh  God!    Was  not  this  my  answer? 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTEENTH  CHAPTER 

IN  her  different  way  Christian  Ann  had  arrived  at  the  same 
conclusion. 

Long  before  the  thought  came  to  me  she  had  conceived  the 
idea  that  Father  Dan  and  the  Reverend  Mother  were  con- 
spiring to  carry  me  off,  and  in  her  dear  sweet  womanly 
jealousy  (not  to  speak  of  higher  and  nobler  instincts)  she 
had  resented  this  intensely. 

For  four  days  she  had  smothered  her  wrath,  only  revealing 
it  to  baby  in  half-articulate  interviews  over  the  cradle 
("We're  no  women  for  these  nun  bodies,  going  about  the 
house  like  ghosts,  are  we,  villishf"),  but  on  the  fifth  day  it 
burst  into  the  fiercest  flame  and  the  gentle  old  thing  flung 
out  at  everybody. 

That  was  the  morning  of  the  departure  of  the  Reverend 
Mother,  who,  after  saying  good-bye  to  me  in  my  bedroom, 
had  just  returned  to  the  parlour-kitchen,  where  Father  Dan 
was  waiting  to  take  her  to  the  railway  station. 

What  provoked  Christian  Ann's  outburst  I  never  rightly 
knew,  for  though  the  door  to  the  staircase  was  open,  and 
I  could  generally  catch  anything  that  was  said  in  the  room 
below  (through  the  open  timbers  of  the  unceiled  floor),  the 
soft  voice  of  the  Reverend  Mother  never  reached  me,  and  the 
Irish  roll  of  Father  Dan's  vowels  only  rumbled  up  like  the 
sound  of  a  drum. 

But  Christian  Ann's  words  came  sharp  and  clear  as  the 
crack  of  a  breaker,  sometimes  trembling  with  indignation, 


I  AM  FOUND  541 

sometimes  quivering  with  emotion,  and  at  last  thickening 
into  sobs. 

"Begging  your  pardon,  ma'am,  may  I  ask  what  is  that 
you're  saying  to  the  Father  about  Mary  O'Neill?  .  .  . 
Going  back  to  Rome  is  she?  To  the  convent,  eh?  ...  No, 
ma'am,  that  she  never  will !  Not  if  I  know  her,  ma'am.  .  .  . 
Not  for  any  purpose  in  the  world,  ma'am.  .  .  .  Temp- 
tation, you  say?  You  know  best,  ma'am,  but  I  don't  call  it 
overcoming  temptation — going  into  hidlands  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  it.  ...  Yes,  I'm  a  Christian  woman  and  a  good 
Catholic  too,  please  the  Saints,  but  asking  your  pardon,  ma'am, 
I  'm  not  thinking  too  much  of  your  convents,  or  believing  the 
women  inside  of  them  are  living  such  very  unselfish  lives 
either,  ma'am." 

Another  soft  rumble  as  of  a  drum,  and  then — 

"No,  ma'am,  no,  that's  truth  enough,  ma'am.  I've  never 
been  a  nun  myself,  having  had  better  work  to  do  in  the  world, 
ma'am.  But  it's  all  as  one — I  know  what's  going  on  in  the 
convents,  I'm  thinking.  .  .  .  Harmony  and  peace,  you 
say?  Yes,  and  jealousy  and  envy  sometimes,  too,  or  you 
wouldn't  be  women  like  the  rest  of  us,  ma'am.  ...  As  for 
Mary  O'Neill,  she  has  something  better  to  do  too,  I'm  think- 
ing. .  .  .  After  doing  wrong,  is  she?  Maybe  she  is,  the 
boght  millish,  maybe  we  all  are,  ma'am,  and  have  need  of 
God's  mercy  and  forgiveness.  But  I  never  heard  that  pray- 
ing is  the  only  kind  of  penance  He  asks  of  us,  ma'am.  And 
if  it  is,  I  wouldn't  trust  but  there  are  poor  women  who  are 
praying  as  well  when  they're  working  over  their  wash-tubs 
as  some  ones  when  they're  saying  their  rosaries  and  singing 
their  Tantum  Ergos.  .  .  ." 

Another  interruption  and  then — "There's  Bella  Kinnish 
herself  who  keeps  the  corner  shop,  ma'am.  Her  husband 
was  lost  at  the  'mackerel'  two  years  for  Easter.  He  left 
her  with  three  little  children  and  a  baby  unborn,  and  Bella's 
finding  it  middling  hard  to  get  a  taste  of  butcher's  meat,  or 
even  a  bit  of  loaf -bread  itself  for  them,  ma'am.  And  when 
she's  sitting  late  at  night,  as  the  doctor's  telling  me,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  village  dark,  darning  little  Liza's  stockings, 
and  patching  little  "Willie's  coat,  or  maybe  nursing  the  baby 
when  it's  down  with  the  measles,  the  Lord  is  as  pleased  with 
her,  I'm  thinking,  as  with  some  of  your  nun  bodies  in  their 
grand  blue  cloaks  taking  turn  and  turn  to  kneel  before  the 
tabernacle. ' ' 


542  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

There  was  another  rumble  of  apologetic  voices  after  that 
(both  Father  Dan's  and  the  Reverend  Mother's),  and  then 
came  Christian  Ann 's  clear  notes  again,  breaking  fast,  though, 
and  sometimes  threatening  to  stop. 

"What's  that  you're  saying,  ma'am?  .  .  .  Motherhood 
a  sacred  and  holy  state  also?  'Deed  it  is,  ma'am!  That's 
truth  enough  too,  though  some  ones  who  shut  themselves  up 
in  convents  don't  seem  to  think  so.  ...  A  mother's  a 
mother,  and  what's  more,  her  child  is  her  child,  wedlock  or 
no  wedlock.  And  if  she's  doing  right  by  her  little  one,  and 
bringing  it  up  well,  and  teaching  it  true,  I  don't  know  that 
when  her  time  comes  the  Lord  will  be  asking  her  which  side 
of  her  wedding-day  it  was  born  on.  ... 

"As  for  Mary  O'Neill,  ma'am,  when  you're  talking  and 
talking  about  her  saving  her  soul,  you're  forgetting  she  has 
her  child  to  save  too,  ma'am.  God  gave  her  the  boght  villish, 
and  is  she  to  run  away  from  it?  It's  a  fine  blessing  would 
be  on  her  for  that,  isn't  it?  ...  Father  Dan,  I'm  sur- 
prised at  you — such  a  terrible,  cruel,  shocking,  unnatural 
thing  as  you're  thinking.  I  thought  you  were  a  better  man 
than  that — I  really  did.  .  .  .  And  as  for  some  ones  that 
call  themselves  Mothers,  they're  no  mothers  at  all  and  never 
will  be — tempting  a  poor  woman  in  her  trouble  to  leave  her 
child  to  be  a  charge  on  other  people.  ..." 

Still  another  rumble  of  soft  voices  and  then — 

"Not  that  I'm  thinking  of  myself,  ma'am.  Dear  heart, 
no!  It's  only  too  eager  I'd  be  to  have  the  lil  angel  to  myself. 
There  she  is  on  the  hearthrug,  ma'am,  and  if  anything  hap- 
pens to  Mary  O'Neill,  it's  there  she'll  be  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  and  it's  sorry  I  am  for  the  darling's  sake  that  my 
time  cannot  be  longer.  .  .  . 

"But  Mary  O'Neill  isn't  for  leaving  her  little  one  to  go 
into  any  convent.  'Deed  no,  ma'am!  There  would  be  no 
rest  on  her  if  she  did.  I  'm  a  mother  myself  and  I  know  what 
she'd  be  feeling.  You  might  put  the  black  hood  on  her  head, 
but  Nature 's  a  wonderful  powerful  thing,  and  she  'd  never  go 
to  bed  at  night  or  get  up  in  the  morning  without  thinking  of 
her  baby.  '  Where 's  she  now  ? '  she  'd  be  asking  herself.  '  What 's 
happening  to  my  motherless  child?'  she'd  be  saying.  And 
as  the  years  went  on  she'd  be  thinking,  'Is  she  well,  and  has 
she  taken  her  first  communion,  and  is  she  growing  up  a  good 
woman,  and  what's  the  world  doing  on  her?'  .  .  . 

"No,  ma'am,  no!     Mary  O'Neill  will  go  into  no  convent 


I  AM  FOUND  543 

while  her  child  is  here  to  be  cared  for!  'Deed  she  won't! 
Not  Mary  O'Neill!  I'll  never  believe  it  of  her!  Never  in 
this  world!" 

I  heard  nothing  more  for  a  long  time  after  that — nothing 
but  a  noise  in  my  own  head  which  drowned  all  other  noises. 
And  when  I  recovered  my  composure  the  Reverend  Mother 
and  Father  Dan  must  have  gone,  for  there  was  no  sound  in 
the  room  below  except  that  of  the  rocking-chair  (which  was 
going  rapidly)  and  Christian  Ann's  voice,  fierce  but  broken 
as  if  baby  had  cried  and  she  was  comforting  her. 

Then  a  great  new  spirit  came  to  me.  It  was  Motherhood 
again!  The  mighty  passion  of  motherhood — which  another 
mighty  passion  had  temporarily  overlaid — sweeping  down  on 
me  once  more  out  of  the  big,  simple,  child-like  heart  of  my 
Martin's  mother. 

In  the  fever  of  body  and  brain  at  that  moment  it  seemed 
to  solve  all  the  problems  of  life  for  me. 

If  the  Commandment  of  God  forbade  me  to  marry  again 
because  I  had  already  taken  vows  before  the  altar  (no  matter 
how  innocently  or  under  what  constraint),  and  if  I  had  com- 
mitted a  sin,  a  great  sin,  and  baby  was  the  living  sign  of  it, 
there  was  only  one  thing  left  me  to  do — to  remain  as  I  was 
and  consecrate  the  rest  of  my  life  to  my  child. 

That  would  be  the  real  expiation,  not  burying  myself  in 
a  convent.  To  live  for  my  child!  Alone  with  her!  Here, 
where  my  sin  had  been,  to  work  out  my  atonement ! 

This  pleased  and  stirred  and  uplifted  me  very  much  when 
I  first  thought  of  it.  And  even  when  I  remembered  Martin, 
and  thought  how  hard  it  would  be  to  tear  myself  away  from 
the  love  which  waited  with  open  arms  for  me  (so  near,  so 
sweet,  so  precious),  there  seemed  to  be  something  majestic, 
almost  sublime,  in  the  sacrifice  I  was  about  to  make — the 
sacrifice  of  everything  in  the  world  (except  one  thing)  that 
was  dearer  to  me  than  life  itself. 

A  sort  of  spiritual  pride  came  with  the  thought  of  this 
sacrifice.  I  saw  myself  as  a  woman  who,  having  pledged  her- 
self to  God  in  her  marriage  and  sinned  against  the  law  in 
breaking  her  marriage  vows,  was  now  going  to  accept  her  fate 
and  to  humble  herself  before  the  bar  of  Eternal  Justice. 

But  oh,  what  a  weak,  vain  thing  I  was,  just  when  I  thought 
I  was  so  strong  and  noble! 

After  a  long  day  in  which  I  had  been  fighting  back  the 
pains  of  my  poor  torn  heart  and  almost  persuading  myself 


544  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

that  I  had  won  a  victory,  a  letter  came  by  the  evening  post 
which  turned  all  my  great  plans  to  dust  and  ashes. 

The  letter  was  from  Martin.  Only  four  little  pages, 
written  in  my  darling's  rugged  hand,  half  serious  and  half 
playful,  yet  they  made  the  earth  rock  and  reel  beneath  me. 

"MY  DEAR  LITTLE  WOMAN, — Just  back  from  Windsor. 
Stunning  'do.'  Tell  you  all  about  it  when  I  get  back  home. 
Meantime  up  to  my  eyes  in  work.  Arrangements  for  next 
Expedition  going  ahead  splendidly.  Had  a  meeting  of  the 
committee  yesterday  and  settled  to  sail  by  the  'Orient'  third 
week  in  August,  so  as  to  get  down  to  Winter  Quarters  in  time 
to  start  south  in  October. 

"Our  own  little  affair  has  got  to  come  off  first,  though,  so 
I'tt  see  the  High  Bailiff  as  soon  as  I  return. 

"And  what  do  you  think,  my  'chree'f  The  boys  of  the 
'Scotia'  are  all  coming  over  to  Elian  for  the  great  event. 
'Deed,  yes,  though,  every  man- jack  of  them!  Scientific  staff 
included,  not  to  speak  of  0 'Sullivan  and  old  Treacle — who 
swears  you  blew  a  kiss  to  him.  They  remember  you  coming 
down  to  Tilbury.  Aw,  God  bless  me  soul,  gel,  the  way  they're 
talking  of  you!  There's  no  holding  them  at  all  at  all! 

"Seriously,  darling,  you  have  no  time  to  lose  in  making 
your  preparations.  My  plan  is  to  take  you  to  New  Zealand 
and  leave  you  at  Wellington  (good  little  town,  good  people, 
too)  while  I  make  my  bit  of  a  trip  to  the  Pole. 

"We'll  arrange  about  Girlie  when  I  reach  home,  which  will 
be  next  week,  I  hope — or  rather  fear — for  every  day  is  like  a 
month  when  I'm  away  from  you. 

"But  never  mind,  little  woman!  Once  I  get  this  big  Ex- 
pedition over  we  are  not  going  to  be  separated  any  more. 
Not  for  a  single  day  as  long  as  we  live,  dearest!  No,  by  the 
Lord  God — Ufe's  too  short  for  it. 

"MART." 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FOURTEENTH  CHAPTER 

AFTER  I  had  read  this  letter  I  saw  that  my  great  battle,  which 
I  had  supposed  to  be  over,  was  hardly  begun. 

Martin  was  coming  home  with  his  big  heart  full  of  love  for 
me,  and  my  own  heart  ran  out  to  meet  him. 

He  intended  to  sail  for  New  Zealand  the  second  week  in 
August,  and  he  expected  to  take  me  with  him. 


I  AM  POUND  545 

In  spite  of  all  my  religious  fears  and  misgivings,  I  asked 
myself  why  I  should  not  go?  What  was  to  prevent  me? 
What  sin  had  I  really  committed?  What  was  there  for 
reparation?  Was  it  anything  more  than  the  letter  of  the 
Divine  law  that  I  had  defied  and  broken? 

My  love  was  mine  and  I  was  his,  and  I  belonged  to  him 
for  ever.  He  was  going  out  on  a  great  errand  in  the  service 
of  humanity.  Couldn't  I  go  to  be  his  partner  and  helpmate? 
And  if  there  had  been  sin,  if  the  law  of  God  had  been  broken, 
wouldn't  that,  too,  be  a  great  atonement? 

Thus  my  heart  fought  with  my  soul,  or  with  my  instincts 
as  a  child  of  the  Church,  or  whatever  else  it  was  that  brought 
ine  back  and  back,  again  and  again,  in  spite  of  all  the  struggles 
of  my  love,  to  the  firm  Commandment  of  our  Lord. 

Father  Dan  had  been  right — I  could  not  get  away  from 
that.  The  Reverend  Mother  had  been  right,  too — other  women 
might  forget  that  they  had  broken  the  Divine  law  but  I  never 
should.  If  I  married  Martin  and  went  away  with  him,  I 
should  always  be  thinking  of  the  falseness  of  my  position, 
and  that  would  make  me  unhappy.  It  would  also  make  Mar- 
tin unhappy  to  witness  my  unhappiness,  and  that  would  be 
the  worst  bitterness  life  could  bring. 

Then  what  was  left  to  me?  If  it  was  impossible  that  I 
should  bury  myself  in  a  convent  it  was  equally  impossible 
that  I  should  live  alone,  and  Martin  in  the  same  world  with 
me. 

Not  all  the  spiritual  pride  I  could  conjure  up  in  the  majesty 
and  solemnity  of  my  self-sacrifice  could  conquer  the  yearning 
of  my  heart  as  a  woman.  Not  all  my  religious  fervour  could 
keep  me  away  from  Martin.  In  spite  of  my  conscience,  sooner 
or  later  I  should  go  to  him — I  knew  quite  well  I  should.  And 
my  child,  instead  of  being  a  barrier  dividing  us,  would  be  a 
natural  bond  calling  on  us  and  compelling  us  to  come  to- 
gether. 

Then  what  was  left  to  a  woman  in  my  position  who  be- 
lieved in  the  Divine  Commandment — who  could  not  get  away 
from  it?  Were  all  the  doors  of  life  locked  to  her?  Turn 
which  way  she  would,  was  there  no  way  out? 

Darker  and  darker  every  day  became  this  question,  but 
light  came  at  last,  a  kind  of  light  or  the  promise  of  light. 
It  was  terrible,  and  yet  it  brought  me,  oh,  such  immense 
relief ! 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  speak  of  it,  so  weak  and  feeble  must 

2M 


546 

any  words  be  in  which  I  attempt  to  describe  that  unfor- 
getable  change.  Already  I  had  met  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
a  woman's  life — now  I  was  to  meet  the  last,  the  greatest,  the 
most  tragic,  and  yet  the  kindest  of  them  all. 

I  suppose  the  strain  of  emotion  I  had  been  going  through 
had  been  too  much  for  my  physical  strength,  for  three  days 
after  the  arrival  of  Martin's  letter  I  seemed  to  be  really  ill. 

I  am  ashamed  to  dwell  on  my  symptoms,  but  for  a  moment 
I  am  forced  to  do  so.  My  eyes  were  bright,  my  cheeks  were 
coloured,  and  there  was  no  outward  indication  of  any  serious 
malady.  But  towards  evening  I  always  had  a  temperature, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  (I  was  sleeping  badly)  it  rose 
very  high,  with  a  rapid  pulse  and  anxious  breathing,  and  in 
the  morning  there  was  great  exhaustion. 

Old  Doctor  Conrad,  who  had  been  coming  to  me  twice  a 
day,  began  to  look  very  grave.  At  last,  after  a  short  exami- 
nation, he  said,  rather  nervously: 

"I  should  like  a  colleague  from  Blackwater  to  consult  with 
me.  Will  you  receive  him?" 

I  said  "Yes"  on  one  condition — that  if  the  new  doctor  had 
anything  serious  to  say  he  should  report  it  first  to  me. 

A  little  reluctantly  Martin 's  father  agreed  to  my  terms  and 
the  consulting  physician  was  sent  for.  He  came  early  the 
next  day — a  beautiful  Elian  morning  with  a  light  breeze  from 
the  sea  bringing  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay  from  the  meadows 
lying  between. 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  and  I  could  not  help  seeing  a 
shadow  cross  his  clean-shaven  face  the  moment  his  eyes  first 
fell  on  me.  They  were  those  tender  but  searching  eyes  which 
are  so  often  seen  in  doctors,  who  are  always  walking  through 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  and  seem  to  focus  their  gaze 
accordingly. 

Controlling  his  expression,  he  came  up  to  my  bed  and, 
taking  the  hand  I  held  out  to  him,  he  said : 

"I  trust  we'll  not  frighten  you,  my  lady." 

I  liked  that  (though  I  cared  nothing  about  my  lost  title, 
I  thought  it  was  nice  of  him  to  remember  it) ,  and  said  I  hoped 
I  should  not  be  too  restless. 

While  he  took  out  and  fixed  his  stethoscope  (he  had  such 
beautiful  soft  hands)  he  told  me  that  he  had  had  a  daughter 
of  my  own  age  once. 

"Once?    Where  is  she  now?"  I  asked  him. 

"In  the  Kingdom.    She  died  like  a  Saint,"  he  answered. 


I  AM  FOUND  547 

Then  he  made  a  long  examination  (returning  repeatedly 
to  the  same  place),  and  when  it  was  over  and  he  raised  his 
face  I  thought  it  looked  still  more  serious. 

"My  child,"  he  said  (I  liked  that  too),  "you've  never 
spared  yourself,  have  you?" 

I  admitted  that  I  had  not. 

''When  you've  had  anything  to  do  you've  done  it,  what- 
ever it  might  cost  you." 

I  admitted  that  also.  He  looked  round  to  see  if  there  was 
anybody  else  in  the  room  (there  was  only  the  old  doctor,  who 
was  leaning  over  the  end  of  the  bed,  watching  the  face  of  his 
colleague)  and  then  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Has  it  ever  happened  that  you  have  suffered  from  priva- 
tion and  hard  work  and  loss  of  sleep  and  bad  lodgings  and 
.  .  .  and  exposure?" 

His  great  searching  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  straight  into 
my  soul,  and  I  could  not  have  lied  to  him  if  I  had  wished, 
so  I  told  him  a  little  (just  a  little)  about  my  life  in  London — 
at  Bayswater,  in  the  East  End  and  Ilford. 

"And  did  you  get  wet  sometimes,  very  wet,  through  all 
your  clothes?"  he  asked  me. 

I  told  him  No,  but  suddenly  remembering  that  during  the 
cold  days  after  baby  came  (when  I  could  not  afford  a  fire)  I 
had  dried  her  napkins  on  my  body,  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
keep  that  fact  from  him, 

"You  dried  baby's  napkins  on  your  own  body?"  he  asked. 

"Sometimes  I  did.  Just  for  a  while,"  I  answered,  feeling 
a  little  ashamed,  and  my  tears  rising. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  and  then  turning  to  the  old  doctor,  "What 
a  mother  will  do  for  her  child,  Conrad!" 

The  eyes  of  Doctor  Conrad  (which  seemed  to  have  become 
swollen)  were  still  fixed  on  the  face  of  his  colleague,  and, 
speaking  as  if  he  had  forgotten  that  I  was  present  with  them 
in  the  room,  he  said: 

"You  think  she's  very  ill,  don't  you?" 

"We'll  talk  of  that  in  your  consulting-room,"  said  the 
strange  doctor. 

Then,  telling  me  to  lie  quiet  and  they  would  come  back 
presently,  he  went  downstairs  and  Martin's  father  followed 
him. 

Nurse  came  up  while  they  were  away  (she  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  me  during  the  last  few  days),  and  I  asked  her  who 
were  in  the  parlour-kitchen. 


548  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

"Only  Father  Donovan  and  Mrs.  Conrad — and  baby,"  she 
told  me. 

Then  the  doctors  came  back — the  consultant  first,  trying 
to  look  cheerful,  and  the  old  doctor  last,  with  a  slow  step  and 
his  head  down,  as  if  he  had  been  a  prisoner  coming  back  to 
court  to  receive  sentence. 

"My  lady,"  said  the  strange  doctor,  "you  are  a  brave 
woman  if  ever  there  was  one,  so  we  have  decided  to  tell 
you  the  truth  about  your  condition." 

And  then  he  told  me. 

I  was  not  afraid.  I  will  not  say  that  I  was  not  sorry.  I 
could  have  wished  to  live  a  little  longer — especially  now  when 
(but  for  the  Commandment  of  God)  love  and  happiness 
seemed  to  be  within  my  grasp. 

But  oh,  the  relief!  There  was  something  sacred  in  it, 
something  supernatural.  It  was  as  if  God  Himself  had  come 
down  to  me  in  the  bewildering  maze  that  was  haunted  by 
the  footsteps  of  my  fate  and  led  me  out  of  it. 

Yet  why  these  poor  weak  words?  They  can  mean  so  little 
to  anybody  except  a  woman  who  has  been  what  I  was,  and 
she  can  have  no  need  of  them. 

All  fear  had  vanished  from  my  thoughts.  I  had  no  fear  for 
myself,  I  remembered,  and  none  for  baby.  The  only  regret 
I  felt  was  for  Martin — he  loved  me  so;  there  had  never  been 
any  other  woman  in  the  world  for  him. 

After  a  moment  I  thanked  the  doctors  and  hoped  I  had  not 
given  them  too  much  trouble.  Doctor  Conrad  seemed  crushed 
into  stupefaction  and  said  nothing;  but  the  strange  doctor 
tried  to  comfort  me  by  saying  there  would  be  no  pain,  and 
that  my  malady  was  of  a  kind  that  would  probably  make  no 
outward  manifestation. 

Being  a  woman  to  the  end  I  was  very  glad  of  that,  and  then 
I  asked  him  if  it  would  last  long.  He  said  No,  not  long,  he 
feared,  although  everything  was  in  God's  hands  and  nobody 
could  say  certainly. 

I  was  saying  I  was  glad  of  that  too,  when  my  quick  ears 
caught  a  sound  of  crying.  It  was  Christian  Ann,  and  Father 
Dan  was  hushing  her.  I  knew  what  was  happening — the  good 
souls  were  listening  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  send  nurse  to  say  they  were  not  to 
cry.  Then  I  had  half  a  mind  to  laugh,  so  that  they  might 
hear  me  and  know  that  what  I  was  going  through  was  noth- 
ing. But  finally  I  bethought  me  of  Martin,  and  asked  that 


I  AM  FOUND  549 

they  might  both  be  brought  up,  for  I  had  something  to  say 
to  them. 

After  a  moment  they  came  into  the  room,  Christian  Ann 
in  her  simple  pure  dress,  and  Father  Dan  in  his  shabby  sack 
coat,  both  looking  very  sorrowful,  the  sweet  old  children. 

Then  (my  two  dear  friends  standing  together  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed)  I  told  them  what  the  doctor  had  said,  and  warned 
them  that  they  were  to  tell  nobody  else — nobody  whatever, 
especially  Martin. 

"Leave  me  to  tell  him,"  I  said.  "Do  you  faithfully 
promise  me?" 

I  could  see  how  difficult  it  was  for  them  to  keep  back  their 
tears,  but  they  gave  me  their  word  and  that  was  all  I 
wanted. 

"My  boy!  My  poor  boy  veen!  He's  thinking  there  isn't 
another  woman  in  the  world  like  her,"  said  Christian  Ann. 

And  then  Father  Dan  said  something  about  my  mother 
extracting  the  same  promise  concerning  myself,  when  I  was 
a  child  at  school. 

After  that  the  Blackwater  doctor  stepped  up  to  say  good- 
bye. 

"I  leave  you  in  good  hands,  but  you  must  let  me  come  to 
see  you  again  some  day,"  he  said,  and  then  with  a  playful 
smile  he  added : 

"They've  got  lots  of  angels  up  in  heaven — we  must  try 
to  keep  some  of  them  on  earth,  you  know." 

That  was  on  the  fifth  of  July,  old  Midsummer  Day,  which  is 
our  national  day  in  Elian,  and  flags  were  flying  over  many 
of  the  houses  in  the  village. 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTEENTH  CHAPTER 

JULY  6.  I  feel  so  much  better  to-day.  I  hardly  know  what 
reaction  of  my  whole  being,  physical  and  spiritual,  has  set 
in  since  yesterday,  but  my  heart  is  lighter  than  for  a  long 
time,  and  sleep,  which  I  had  come  to  look  upon  as  a  lost 
blessing,  came  to  me  last  night  for  four  solid  hours — beauti- 
ful and  untroubled  as  a  child's. 

JULY  8.  Martin  writes  that  he  expects  to  be  here  on  the 
12th.  Letter  full  of  joyous  spirits.  "Lots  to  tell  you  when 
I  reach  home,  dearest."  Strange!  No  mortal  can  imagine 
how  anxious  I  am  to  get  him  back,  yet  I  almost  dread  his 
coming.  When  he  was  away  before,  Time  could  not  go  fast 


550  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

enough  for  me.    Now  it  is  going  too  fast.    I  know  what  that 
means — the  story  I  have  to  tell.    How  am  I  to  tell  it  ? 

JULY  10.  Only  two  days  more  and  Martin  will  be  here. 
Of  course  I  must  be  up  when  he  arrives.  Nurse  says  No,  but 
I  say  Yes.  To  be  in  bed  when  he  comes  would  be  too  much 
of  a  shock  for  him. 

"Servants  are  such  domineering  tyrants,"  says  Christian 
Ann,  who  never  had  but  one,  and  "the  strange  woman"  was 
such  a  phantom  in  the  house  that  the  poor  mistress  was 
grateful  to  God  when  Hollantide  came  round  and  the  ghost 
walked  away  of  itself.  My  nurse  is  a  dear,  though.  How 
glad  I  am  now  that  I  persuaded  Christian  Ann  to  let  her  stay. 

JULY  12.  Martin  comes  to-day,  and  the  old  doctor  (with 
such  a  proud  and  stately  step)  has  gone  off  to  Blackwater 
to  meet  him.  I  am  terribly  weak  (no  pain  whatever),  but 
perfectly  resolute  on  dressing  and  going  downstairs  towards 
tea-time.  I  shall  wear  a  white  tea-gown,  which  Sister  Mildred 
gave  me  in  London.  Martin  likes  me  best  in  white. 

LATER.  My  Martin  has  come !  We  had  counted  it  up  that 
travelling  across  the  island  by  motor-car  he  would  arrive 
at  five,  so  I  was  dressed  and  downstairs  by  four,  sitting  in  the 
chiollagh  and  watching  the  road  through  the  window  opposite. 
But  he  was  half  an  hour  late,  and  Christian  Ann  and  I  were 
in  such  a  fever  that  anybody  would  have  believed  it  to  be  half 
a  century  and  that  the  world  had  stood  still. 

We  might  have  known  what  would  happen.  At  Blackwater 
"the  boys"  (the  same  that  "got  up  the  spree"  when  Martin 
went  away)  had  insisted  on  a  demonstration.  Then,  on 
reaching  our  village,  Martin  had  got  down  and  shaken  hands 
with  everybody — the  joiner  and  the  grocer  and  the  black- 
smith and  the  widow  who  keeps  the  corner  shop — so  that 
it  had  taken  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  get  through,  amid 
a  general  chorus  of  ' '  The  boy  he  is,  though ! ' '  and  ' '  No  pride 
at  all  at  all!" 

After  that  he  drove  home  at  top  speed,  and  my  quick  ears 
caught  the  musical  hum  of  the  motor  as  it  crossed  the  bridge. 
Good  gracious,  what  excitement! 

"Quick  nurse,  help  me  to  the  gate." 

I  got  there  just  in  time  to  hear  a  shout,  and  to  see  a 
precipitate  bound  out  of  the  car  and  then  .  .  .  what  an 
embrace ! 


I  AM  FOUND  551 

It  is  such  a  good  thing  my  Martin  is  a  big,  brawny  person, 
for  I  don't  know  how  I  should  have  got  back  to  the  house, 
being  so  weak  and  breathless  just  then,  if  his  strong  arm  had 
not  been  round  my  waist. 

Dr.  0  'Sullivan  had  come  too,  looking  as  gay  as  a  humming- 
bird, and  after  I  had  finished  with  Martin  I  kissed  him  also 
(having  such  a  largesse  of  affection  to  distribute  generally), 
whereupon  he  blushed  like  a  boy,  bless  him,  and  stammered 
out  something  about  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Thomas,  and  how  he 
wouldn't  have  believed  anybody  who  had  said  there  was  any- 
thing so  sweet,  etc. 

Martin  said  I  was  looking  so  well,  and  he,  too,  declared  he 
wouldn't  have  believed  any  man  who  had  sworn  I  could  have 
looked  so  much  better  in  the  time. 

My  nervous  thermometer  must  have  gone  up  by  leaps  and 
bounds  during  the  next  hour,  for  immediately  after  tea  the 
old  doctor  ordered  me  back  to  bed,  though  I  refused  to  go 
until  he  had  faithfully  promised  that  the  door  to  the  staircase 
should  be  kept  open,  so  that  I  could  hear  what  was  said 
downstairs. 

What  lots  of  fun  they  had  there!  Half  the  parish  must 
have  come  in  ' '  to  put  a  sight ' '  on  Martin  after  his  investiture, 
including  old  Tommy  the  Mate,  who  told  everybody  over  and 
over  again  that  he  had  "known  the  lad  since  he  was  a  lump" 
and  "him  and  me  are  same  as  brothers." 

The  old  doctor's  stately  pride  must  have  been  something  to 
see.  It  was  "Sir  Martin"  here  and  "Sir  Martin"  there, 
until  I  could  have  cried  to  hear  him.  I  felt  just  as  foolish 
myself,  too,  for  though  I  cannot  remember  that  my  pulse 
gave  one  extra  beat  when  they  made  me  "your  ladyship," 
now  that  Martin  has  become.  .  .  .  But  that's  what  we 
women  are,  you  see ! 

At  length  Martin's  big  voice  came  up  clear  above  the  rest, 
and  then  the  talk  was  about  the  visit  to  Windsor.  Christian 
Ann  wanted  to  know  if  he  wasn't  "f reckoned"  to  be  there, 
"not  being  used  of  Kings,"  whereupon  he  cried: 

"What!  Frightened  of  another  man — and  a  stunning 
good  one,  too!" 

And  then  came  a  story  of  hovr  the  King  had  asked  if  he 
hadn  't  been  in  fear  of  icebergs,  and  how  he  had  answered  No, 
you  could  strike  more  of  them  in  a  day  in  London  (meaning 
icy-hearted  people)  than  in  a  life-time  in  the  Antarctic. 


552  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

I  suppose  I  must  have  laughed  at  that,  for  the  next  I  heard 
was: 

"Hush!    Isn't  that  Mary?" 

"Aw,  yes,  the  poor  veg  veen,"  said  a  sad  voice.  It  was 
Christian  Ann's.  At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  I  shall  always 
be  the  child  who  "sang  carvals  to  her  door." 

"What  a  wonderful  day !  I  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  to-night, 
though.  To-morrow  I  must  tell  him. 

JULY  13.  I  intended  to  tell  Martin  this  morning,  but  I 
really  couldn't. 

I  was  going  downstairs  to  breakfast,  holding  on  to  the 
bannisters  at  one  side  and  using  nurse 's  shoulder  as  my  other 
crutch,  when  I  saw  the  brightest  picture  I  have  ever  beheld. 
Baby  and  Martin  were  on  hands  and  knees  on  the  rag-work 
hearthrug,  face  to  face — Martin  calling  her  to  come,  Isabel 
lifting  up  her  little  head  to  him,  like  a  fledgling  in  a  nest,  and 
both  laughing  with  that  gurgling  sound  as  of  water  bubbling 
out  of  a  bottle. 

This  sight  broke  all  the  breath  out  of  me  at  the  very  first 
moment.  And  when  Martin,  after  putting  me  into  my  place 
in  the  chiollagh,  plunged  immediately  into  a  rapturous 
account  of  his  preparations  for  our  departure — how  we  were 
to  be  married  by  special  license  at  the  High  Bailiff's  on  the 
tenth  (if  that  date  would  do),  how  I  was  to  rest  a  day  and 
then  travel  up  to  London  on  the  twelfth,  and  then  rest  other 
four  days  (during  which  warm  clothes  could  be  bought  for 
me),  and  sail  by  the  Orient  on  the  sixteenth — I  could  not 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  tell  him  then  of  the  inexorable  fate 
that  confronted  us. 

It  was  cowardice,  I  knew,  and  sooner  or  later  I  should  have 
to  pay  for  it.  But  when  he  went  on  to  talk  about  baby,  and 
appealed  to  his  mother  to  say  if  she  wouldn't  look  after 
Girlie  when  I  was  gone,  and  Christian  Ann  (in  such  a  differ- 
ent tone)  said  Yes,  she  would  look  after  Girlie  when  I  was 
gone,  I  decided  that  I  dared  not  tell  him  at  all — I  would  die 
rather  than  do  so. 

The  end  of  it  all  is  that  I  have  arranged  with  Christian 
Ann,  the  old  doctor,  and  Father  Dan  that  Time  and  Martin's 
own  observation  are  to  tell  him  what  is  going  to  happen,  and 
none  of  us  are  to  say  anything  about  it. 

What  a  deceiver  I  am,  though!  I  put  it  all  down  to  my 
unselfish  love  for  Martin.  It  would  be  such  a  blow  to  him — 


I  AM  FOUND  553 

disturbing  his  plans,  upsetting  everything,  perhaps  causing 
him  to  postpone  his  Expedition,  or  even  to  abandon  it  alto- 
gether. "Let  the  truth  fall  soft  on  him.  He'll  see  it  soon 
enough.  Don't  let  us  be  cruel." 

The  dear  sweet,  unsuspecting  old  darlings  have  taken  it 
all  in — all  my  vain  and  cowardly  selfishness.  I  am  to  play 
the  part  of  pretending  to  fall  in  with  Martin's  plans,  and 
they  are  to  stand  by  and  say  nothing. 

Can  I  do  it?    I  wonder,  I  wonder! 

JULY  15.  I  am  becoming  quite  a  great  actress!  It's 
astonishing  to  see  how  I  develop  my  deceptions  under  aR 
sorts  of  veils  and  disguises. 

Martin  told  me  to-day  that  he  had  given  up  the  idea  of 
leaving  me  at  Wellington  and  had  determined  to  take  me  on 
to  Winter  Quarters,  having  met,  on  the  way  to  Windsor,  some 
great  specialist  in  my  kind  of  malady  (I  wonder  how  much 
he  knows  of  it),  who  declared  that  the  climate  of  the 
Antarctic  would  act  on  me  like  magic. 

Such  glorious  sunshine  in  summer !  Such  crisp,  dry,  stimu- 
lating air!  New  life  with  every  breath!  Such  a  stunning 
little  house,  too,  so  cosy  and  comfortable!  And  then  the 
men  whom  he  would  leave  behind  while  he  slipped  down 
South — they  would  worship  me! 

"How  splendid!  How  glorious!"  I  cried.  "How  de- 
lightful to  be  mistress  over  a  houseful  of  big,  hungry,  healthy 
boys,  who  come  in  out  of  the  snow  and  want  to  eat  up  every- 
thing!" 

Sometimes  I  feel  myself  being  carried  away  by  my  own  act- 
ing, and  then  I  see  the  others  (Christian  Ann  and  the  old  doctor 
and  Father  Dan)  dropping  their  heads  or  stealing  out  of 
the  room. 

I  wish  I  were  not  so  weak.  I  feel  no  pain  whatever.  Only 
this  temperature  during  the  nights  and  the  ever-deepening 
exhaustion  in  the  mornings. 

JULY  16.  I  am  keeping  it  up!  To-day  I  was  alone  with 
Martin  for  a  long  hour  in  the  garden-house.  Weather  soft 
and  beautiful,  the  heavens  blue,  and  gleams  of  sunshine  com- 
ing through  the  trellis-work. 

Merely  to  sit  beside  my  darling  with  his  odour  of  health 
is  to  feel  a  flood  of  bodily  strength  coursing  through  me, 
enough  to  make  me  forget  that  I  am  a  frail  thing  myself, 


554  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

who  could  be  blown  away  by  a  puff  of  wind.  But  to  hear 
him  talk  on  his  own  subject  is  to  be  lifted  up  to  the  highest 
reaches  of  the  soul. 

I  always  say  there  is  a  dumb  poet  in  every  explorer;  but 
the  poet  wasn't  dumb  to-day  when  Martin  talked  about  the 
cyclone  or  anticyclone,  or  whatever  it  is  which  covers  the 
region  of  the  South  Pole  like  a  cap,  and  determines  the 
weather  of  a  great  part  of  the  habitable  globe. 

"We  are  going  to  take  from  God  His  word  and  pass  it  on 
to  the  world,"  he  said. 

After  that  he  made  reference  (for  the  first  time  since  his 
return)  to  the  difficulties  of  our  position,  saying  what  a 
glorious  thing  it  would  be  to  escape  to  that  great  free  region 
from  the  world  of  civilisation,  with  its  effete  laws  and  worn- 
out  creeds  which  enslave  humanity.' 

"Only  a  month  to-day  until  we  start,  and  you'll  be  well 
enough  to  travel  then,  dearest." 

"Yes,  yes,  only  a  month  to-day,  and  I  shall  be  well  enough 
then,  dearest." 

Oh,  Mary  O'Neill!  How  much  longer  will  you  be  able  to 
keep  it  up,  dear? 

JULY  17.  Martin  brought  the  proofs  of  his  new  book 
from  London,  and  to-day  in  the  summer-house  (bluebells 
paling  out  and  hanging  their  heads,  but  the  air  full  of  the 
odour  of  fruit  trees)  he  and  Dr.  0 'Sullivan  and  I  have  been 
correcting  "galleys" — the  doctor  reading  aloud,  Martin 
smoking  his  briar-root  pipe,  and  I  (in  a  crater  of  cushions) 
supposed  to  be  sitting  as  judge  and  jury. 

Such  simple,  straight,  natural  writing!  There  may  have 
been  a  thousand  errors  but  my  ears  heard  none  of  them. 
The  breathless  bits  about  the  moments  when  death  was  near; 
the  humorous  bits  about  patching  the  tent  with  the  tails  of 
their  shirts  when  an  overturned  lamp  burnt  a  hole  in  the 
canvas — this  was  all  I  was  conscious  of  until  I  was  startled  by 
the  sound  of  a  sepulchral  voice,  groaning  out  "Oh  Lord 
a-massy  me!"  and  by  the  sight  of  a  Glengarry  cap  over  the 
top  of  the  fuchsia  hedge.  Old  Tommy  was  listening  from  the 
road. 

We  sat  late  over  our  proofs  and  then,  the  dew  having 
begun  to  fall,  Martin  said  he  must  carry  me  indoors  lest  my 
feet  should  get  wet — which  he  did,  with  the  result  that,  re- 
membering what  had  happened  on  our  first  evening  at  Castle 


I  AM  FOUXD  555 

Raa,  I  had  a  pretty  fit  of  hysterics  as  soon  as  we  reached  the 
house. 

"Let's  skip,  Commanther,"  was  the  next  thing  I  heard, 
and  then  I  was  helped  upstairs  to  bed. 

JULY  18.  "What  a  flirt  I  am  becoming !  Having  conceived 
the  idea  that  Dr.  O 'Sullivan  is  a  little  wee  bit  in  love  with 
me  too,  I  have  been  playing  him  off  against  Martin. 

It  was  so  delicious  (after  all  I  have  gone  through)  to  have 
two  magnificent  men,  out  of  the  heroic  youth  of  the  worid> 
waiting  hand  and  foot  on  one  little  woman,  that  the  feminine 
soul  in  me  to-day  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  an  in- 
nocent effort  at  coquetry. 

So  before  we  began  business  on  the  proofs  I  told  Martin 
that,  if  he  was  determined  to  leave  me  behind  at  winter 
quarters  while  he  went  away  to  the  Pole,  he  must  allow  Dr. 
O 'Sullivan  to  remain  behind  to  take  care  of  me. 

Of  course  the  doctor  rose  to  my  bait  like  a  dear,  crying: 

"He  will  too — by  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Thomas  he  will,  and 
a  mighty  proud  man  hell  be  entirely.  ..." 

But  good  gracious!  A  momentary  shadow  passed  over 
Martin's  face,  then  came  one  of  his  big  broad  smiles,  then 
out  shot  his  clinched  fist,  and  .  .  .  the  poor  doctor  and  hia 
garden  seat  were  rolling  over  each  other  on  the  grass. 

However,  we  got  through  without  bloodshed,  and  did  a 
good  day's  work  on  the  book. 

I  must  not  write  any  more.  I  have  always  written  in 
my  own  book  at  night,  when  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  any 
kind  of  Christian  sleep;  but  I'm  weaker  now,  so  must  stop, 
lest  I  shouldn't  have  strength  enough  for  Martin's. 

JULY  20.  Oh  dear!  I  am  dragging  all  these  other  poor 
dears  into  my  deceptions.  Christian  Ann  does  not  mind  what 
lies,  or  half -lies,  she  has  to  tell  in  order  to  save  pain  to  her 
beloved  son.  But  the  old  doctor!  And  Father  Dan! 

To-day  itself,  as  Martin's  mother  would  say,  I  had  to  make 
my  poor  old  priest  into  a  shocking  story-teller. 

I  developed  a  cough  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  though  it  is  not 
really  of  much  account  I  have  been  struggling  to  smother  it 
while  Martin  has  been  about,  knowing  he  is  a  doctor  himself, 
and  fearing  his  ear  might  detect  the  note. 

But  this  afternoon  (whether  a  little  damp,  with  a  soft 
patter  of  sweet  rain  on  the  trees  and  the  bushes)  I  had  a 


556  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

rather  bad  bout,  at  which  Martin's  face  looked  grave,  until 
I  laughed  and  said: 

''It's  nothing!  I've  had  this  sort  of  cough  every  summer 
since  I  was  born — haven't  I,  Father  Dan?" 

"Ye-es." 

I  shall  have  to  remember  that  in  my  next  confession,  but 
what  Father  Dan  is  to  do  I  really  don't  know. 

JULY  21.  I  have  been  rather  down  to-day  about  a  news- 
paper that  came  to  me  anonymously  from  Paris,  with  a  report 
marked  for  my  special  delectation. 

"FASHIONABLE  MARRIAGE  OP  AN  ENGLISH  PEER  AND  AN 
AMERICAN  HEIRESS." 

My  husband's  and  Alma's!  It  took  place  at  the  American 
Embassy,  and  was  attended  by  great  numbers  of  smart  people. 
There  was  a  long  account  of  the  grandeur  of  the  bride's 
dress  and  of  the  splendour  of  the  bridegroom's  presents. 
They  have  taken  an  apartment  on  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
will  spend  most  of  the  year  in  Paris. 

Ah  well,  why  should  I  trouble  about  a  matter  that  so  little 
concerns  me  ?  Alma  is  still  beautiful ;  she  will  be  surrounded 
by  admirers;  her  salon  will  be  frequented  by  the  fashionable 
parasites  of  Europe  and  America. 

As  for  my  husband,  the  straw-fire  of  his  wife's  passion  for 
him  will  soon  burn  out,  especially  now  that  she  has  gained 
what  she  wanted — his  name,  his  title. 


Martin  carried  me  upstairs  to  bed  to-night.  I  was  really 
feeling  weaker  than  usual,  but  we  made  a  great  game  of  it. 
Nurse  went  first,  behind  a  mountain  of  pillows ;  Martin  and  I 
came  next,  with  his  arms  about  my  body  and  mine  around 
his  neck;  and  Dr.  0 'Sullivan  last,  carrying  two  tall  brass 
candlesticks. 

How  we  laughed !  "We  all  laughed  together,  as  if  trying  to 
see  which  of  us  could  laugh  the  loudest.  Only  Christian  Ann 
looked  serious,  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  nursing 
baby  in  her  nightdress. 

It  is  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  as  I  write,  and  I  can 
hear  our  laughter  still — only  it  sounds  like  sobbing  now. 


I  AM  FOUND  557 

JULY  22.  Have  heard  something  to-day  that  has  taken  all 
the  warmth  of  life  out  of  me.  It  is  about  my  father,  whom 
the  old  doctor  still  attends.  Having  been  told  of  my  hus- 
band's marriage  he  has  announced  his  intention  of  claiming 
my  child  if  anything  happens  to  me ! 

What  his  object  may  be  I  do  not  know.  He  cannot  be 
thinking  of  establishing  a  claim  to  my  husband's  title — Isabel 
being  a  girl.  Remembering  something  his  lawyer  said  about 
the  marriage  settlement  when  I  consulted  him  on  the  subject 
of  divorce,  I  can  only  assume  that  (now  he  is  poor)  he  is 
trying  to  recover  the  inheritance  he  settled  on  my  husband. 

It  frightens  me — raising  my  old  nightmare  of  a  lawsuit 
about  the  legitimacy  of  my  child.  I  want  to  speak  to  Martin 
about  it.  Tet  how  can  I  do  so  without  telling  him  the  truth 
which  I  have  been  struggling  so  hard  to  conceal? 

JULY  23.     Oh,  Mary  O'Neill,  what  are  you  coming  to? 

I  told  Martin  about  father's  threat,  only  I  gave  it  another 
colour.  He  had  heard  of  the  Reverend  Mother's  visit,  so  I 
said  the  rumour  had  reached  my  father  that  I  intended  to 
enter  a  convent,  and  he  had  declared  that,  if  I  did  so,  he 
would  claim  my  child  from  Christian  Ann,  being  its  nearest 
blood  relation. 

"Can  he  do  so — when  I  am  .  .  .  when  we  are  gone ?"  I 
asked. 

I  thought  Martin's  strong  face  looked  sterner  than  I  had 
ever  seen  it.  He  made  a  vague  reply  and  left  me  soon  after- 
wards on  some  sort  of  excuse. 

About  an  hour  later  he  came  back  to  carry  me  upstairs,  and 
just  as  he  was  setting  me  down,  and  Christian  Ann  was 
coming  in  with  the  candles,  he  whispered: 

"Don't  worry  about  Girlie.  I've  settled  that  matter,  I'm 
thinking. ' ' 

What  has  he  done,  I  wonder  ? 

MEMORANDUM  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD 

What  I  had  done  is  easily  told.  I  had  gone  straight  to 
Daniel  O'Neill  himself,  intending  to  know  the  truth  of  the 
story  and  to  act  accordingly. 

Already  I  knew  enough  to  scent  mischief.  I  could  not  be 
so  stupefied  into  blindness  of  what  was  going  on  under  my 
eyes  as  not  to  see  that  the  dirty  question  of  money,  and  per- 
haps the  dirtier  question  of  the  aims  and  expectations  of 


558  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

the  woman  MacLeod,  were  at  the  root  of  the  matter  that  was 
distressing  my  darling. 

Daniel  O'Neill  had  left  the  Big  House  and  gone  to  live  in 
his  mother's  old  cottage  for  two  reasons — first,  to  delude  the 
law  into  the  idea  that  he  was  himself  utterly  ruined  by  the 
bankruptcy  to  which  he  had  brought  the  whole  island;  and 
next,  to  gratify  the  greed  of  his  mistress,  who  wanted  to  get 
him  to  herself  at  the  end,  so  that  he  might  be  persuaded  to 
marry  her  (if  it  were  only  on  his  death-bed)  and  so  establish, 
against  any  claim  of  his  daughter's,  her  widow's  rights  in 
what  a  husband  leaves  behind  him — which  is  half  of  every- 
thing in  Elian. 

What  connection  this  had  with  the  man's  desire  to  get  hold 
of  the  child  I  had  yet  to  learn ;  but  I  meant  to  learn  it  without 
another  hour's  delay,  so  I  set  off  for  the  cottage  on  the 
curragh. 

It  was  growing  dark,  and  not  being  sure  of  my  way  through 
the  ever-changing  bypaths  of  the  bog  land,  I  called  on  Father 
Dan  to  guide  me.  The  old  priest  seemed  to  know  my  errand 
(the  matter  my  darling  had  communicated  as  a  secret  being 
common  knowledge),  and  at  first  he  looked  afraid. 

''Well  .  .  .  yes,  yes  .  .  .  why  shouldn't  I?"  he  said, 
and  then,  "Yes,  I  will,  I  will" — with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  a  daring  enterprise. 

Our  curragh  is  a  stretch  of  wild  marsh  lying  over  against 
the  sea,  undrained,  only  partly  cultivated,  half  covered  with 
sedge  and  sallow  bushes,  and  consequently  liable  to  heavy 
mists.  There  was  a  mist  over  it  that  night,  and  hence  it  was 
aot  easy  even  for  Father  Dan  (accustomed  to  midnight  visits 
to  curragh  cottages)  to  find  the  house  which  had  once  been 
the  home  of  "Neale  the  Lord." 

We  rooted  it  out  at  last  by  help  of  the  parish  constable, 
who  was  standing  at  the  corner  of  a  by-road  talking  to  the 
coachman  of  a  gorgeous  carriage  waiting  there,  with  its  two 
splendid  horses  smoking  in  the  thick  night  air. 

When,  over  the  shingle  of  what  we  call  "the  street,"  we 
reached  the  low  straggling  crofter-cottage  under  its  thick 
trammon  tree  (supposed  to  keep  off  the  evil  spirits),  I  rapped 
with  my  knuckles  at  the  door,  and  it  was  opened  by  a  tall, 
scraggy  wroman  with  a  handle  in  her  hand. 

This  was  Nessy  MacLeod,  harder  and  uglier  than  ever,  with 
her  red  hair  combed  up,  giving  her  the  appearance  of  a 
bunch  of  carrots  over  two  stalks  of  rhubarb. 


I  AM  FOUND  559 

Almost  before  I  had  time  to  say  that  we  had  come  to  see 
Mr.  O'Neill,  and  to  step  into  the  house  while  saying  so,  a 
hoarse,  husky,  querulous  man's  voice  cried  from  within: 

"Who  is  it,  Nessy?" 

"It's  Father  Dan,  and  Martin    ...    I  mean  Sir    .    .    .  " 

"That'll  do,"  I  said,  and  the  next  moment  we  were  in 
the  living-room — a  bare,  bleak,  comfortless  Curraghman's 
kitchen. 

A  more  incongruous  sight  than  we  saw  there  human  eyes 
never  beheld. 

Daniel  O'Neill,  a  shadow  of  the  big  brute  creature  he  once 
was,  a  shrivelled  old  man,  with  his  bony  hands  scored  and 
contracted  like  an  autumn  leaf,  his  shrunken  legs  scarcely 
showing  through  his  baggy  trousers,  his  square  face  whiter 
than  the  wall  behind  it,  and  a  piece  of  red  flannel  hanging 
over  his  head  like  a  cowl,  sat  in  the  elbow-chair  at  the  side  of 
the  hearth-fire,  while  at  a  deal  table,  which  was  covered  with 
papers  that  looked  like  law  deeds  and  share  certificates  (being 
stamped  and  sealed),  sat  the  Bishop  of  the  island,  and  its 
leading  lawyer,  Mr.  Curphy. 

On  hearing  my  name  and  seeing  me  enter  the  house, 
Daniel  O'Neill  lost  all  control  of  himself.  He  struggled  to 
his  feet  by  help  of  a  stick,  and  as  I  walked  up  to  him  he 
laid  hold  of  me. 

' '  You  devil ! "  he  cried.  ' '  You  infernal  villain  !  You    .    .    . " 

But  it  is  of  no  use  to  repeat  what  else  he  said  in  the 
fuming  of  his  rage,  laying  hold  of  me  by  the  collar  of  my 
coat,  and  tugging  at  it  as  if  he  would  drag  me  to  his  feet. 

I  was  half  sorry  for  the  man,  badly  as  I  thought  of  him, 
so  I  only  opened  his  hand  (easy  enough  to  do,  for  the  grip 
was  gone  from  it)  and  said: 

"You're  an  old  man,  sir,  and  you're  a  sick  man — don't 
tempt  me  to  forget  that  you  are  the  father  of  Mary  O'Neill. 
Sit  down." 

He  sat  down,  breathless  and  broken,  without  another  word. 
But  the  Bishop,  with  a  large  air  of  outraged  dignity,  faced 
about  to  poor  Father  Dan  (who  was  standing  near  the  door, 
turning  his  round  hat  in  his  trembling  hands)  and  said: 

"Father  Donovan,  did  you  know  that  Mr.  O'Neill  was 
very  ill?" 

"I  did,  Monsignor,"  said  Father  Dan. 

"And  that  a  surgeon  is  coming  from  London  to  perform 
an  operation  upon  him — did  you  know  that  ? ' ' 


560  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

"I  did,  Monsignor." 

"Did  you  know  also  that  /  was  here  to-night  to  attend 
with  Mr.  Curphy  to  important  affairs  and  perhaps  discharge 
some  sacred  duties?" 

"I  knew  that  too,  Monsignor." 

"Then,"  said  the  Bishop,  pointing  at  me,  "how  dare  you 
bring  this  man  here — this  man  of  all  others,  who  has  been 
the  chief  instrument  in  bringing  shame  and  disgrace  upon 
our  poor  sick  friend  and  his  deeply  injured  family  ? ' ' 

"So  that's  how  you  look  at  it,  is  it,  Monsignor?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  how  I  look  at  it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  a 
priest  of  my  Church  who  has  so  weakened  his  conscience  by 
sympathy  with  notorious  sinners  as  to  see  things  in  any 
other  light." 

"Sinners,  Bishop?" 

' '  Didn  't  you  hear  me,  Father  Donovan  ?  Or  do  you  desire 
me  to  use  a  harder  name  for  them — for  one  of  them  in  par- 
ticular, on  whom  you  have  wasted  so  much  weak  sentimen- 
tality, to  the  injury  of  your  spiritual  influence  and  the  de- 
moralisation of  your  parish.  I  have  warned  you  already. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  go  further,  to  remove  you  from  your 
Presbytery,  or  perhaps  report  your  conduct  to  those  who  have 
power  to  take  the  frock  off  your  back?  What  standard  of 
sanctity  for  the  sacrament  of  Holy  Matrimony  do  you  ex- 
pect to  maintain  while  you  degrade  it  by  openly  associating 
with  a  woman  who  has  broken  her  marriage  vows  and  become 
little  better  ...  I  grieve  to  say  it  [with  a  deep  inclina- 
tion of  the  head  towards  the  poor  wreck  in  the  elbow-chair] 
little  better  than  a  common.  .  .  .  " 

I  saw  the  word  that  was  coming,  and  I  was  out  in  an  in- 
stant. But  there  was  somebody  before  me.  It  was  Father 
Dan.  The  timid  old  priest  seemed  to  break  in  one  moment 
the  bonds  of  a  life-long  tyranny. 

"What's  that  you  say,  Monsignor?"  he  cried  in  a  shrill 
voice.  "1  degrade  the  sacrament  of  Holy  Matrimony? 
Never  in  this  world!  But  if  there's  anybody  in  the  island 
of  Elian  who  has  done  that  same  every  day  of  his  life,  it's 
yourself,  and  never  more  cruelly  and  shamefully  than  in 
the  case  we're  talking  of  at  this  present  speaking." 

"I'm  not  used  to  this  kind  of  language  from  my  clergy, 
Father  Donovan,"  began  the  Bishop,  but  before  he  could  say 
more  Father  Dan  caught  him  up  by  crying : 

"Perhaps  not,  Monsignor.     But  you've  got  to  hear  for 


I  AM  FOUND  561 

once,  and  that's  now.  When  this  man  [pointing  to  Daniel 
O'Neill]  for  his  own  purposes  wanted  to  marry  his  daughter 
(who  was  a  child  and  had  no  choice  in  the  matter)  to  one 
of  another  faith,  a  man  who  didn't  believe  in  the  sacrament 
of  marriage  as  we  know  it,  who  was  it  that  paved  the  way 
for  him?" 

"You  actually  mean  that  7.    .    .    .  " 

"I  mean  that  without  your  help,  Monsignor,  a  good  girl 
could  never  have  been  married  to  a  bad  man.  You  didn't  act 
in  ignorance,  either.  When  somebody  told  you — somebody 
who  is  here  now — that  the  man  to  whom  you  were  going  to 
marry  that  innocent  girl  was  a  notorious  loose  liver,  a 
profligate,  a  reprobate,  a  betrayer  of  women,  and  a  damned 
scoundrel.  ..." 

"Go  on,  Father  Dan;  that's  God's  own  name  for  him," 
I  said,  when  the  old  priest  caught  his  breath  for  a  moment, 
terrified  by  the  word  that  had  burst  from  his  lips. 

"Let's  have  an  end  of  this,"  said  the  Bishop  mightily. 

' '  Wait  a  bit,  sir, ' '  I  said,  and  then  Father  Dan  went  on  to 
say  how  he  had  been  told  there  was  nothing  to  my  story,  and 
how  he  had  been  forbidden  to  inquire  into  it. 

' '  That 's  how  you  made  me  a  party  to  this  wicked  marriage, 
God  and  His  Holy.  Mother  pardon  me!  And  now  that  it 
has  come  to  the  end  you  might  have  expected,  and  the  poor 
helnless  child  who  was  bought  and  sold  like  a  slave  is  in  the 
position  of  the  sinner,  you  want  me  to  cut  her  off,  to  turn  the 
hearts  of  all  good  people  against  her,  to  cast  her  out  of  com- 
munion, to  make  her  a  thing  to  point  the  finger  at — me,  her 
spiritual  father  who  baptized  her,  taking  her  out  of  the  arms 
of  the  angel  who  bore  her  and  giving  her  to  Christ — or  if  I 
won't  you'll  deprive  me  of  my  living,  you'll  report  me  to 
Rome,  you'll  unfrock  me.  .  .  ." 

' '  Do  it,  Monsignor, ' '  cried  Father  Dan,  taking  a  step  nearer 
to  the  Bishop  and  lifting  a  trembling  hand  over  his  head. 
"Do  it,  if  our  Holy  Church  will  permit  you,  and  I'll  put  a 
wallet  on  my  old  shoulders  and  go  round  the  houses  of  my 
parish  in  my  old  age,  begging  a  bite  of  bread  and  a  basin  of 
meal,  and  sleeping  under  a  thorn  bush,  rather  than  lay  my 
head  on  my  pillow  and  know  that  that  poor  victim  of  your 
wicked  scheming  is  in  the  road." 

The  throbbing  and  breaking  of  the  old  priest's  voice  had 
compelled  me  to  drop  my  head,  and  it  was  not  until  I  heard 

2N 


562  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

the  sneck  of  the  lock  of  the  outer  door  that  I  realised  that, 
overcome  by  his  emotion,  he  had  fled  from  the  house. 

"And  now  I  guess  you  can  follow  your  friend,"  said  Daniel 
O'NeilL 

"Not  yet,  sir,"  I  answered.  "I  have  something  to  say 
first." 

"Well,  well,  what  is  it,  please?"  said  the  lawyer  sharply 
and  insolently,  looking  to  where  I  was  standing  with  folded 
arms  at  one  side  of  the  hearth-place. 

"You'll  hear  soon  enough,  Master  Curphy,"  I  answered. 

Then,  turning  back  to  Daniel  O'Neill,  I  told  him  what 
rumour  had  reached  my  dear  one  of  his  intentions  with  regard 
to  her  child,  and  asked  him  to  say  whether  there  was  any 
truth  in  it. 

"Answer  the  man,  Curphy,"  said  Daniel  O'Neill,  and 
thereupon  the  lawyer,  with  almost  equal  insolence,  turned  to 
me  and  said: 

"What  is  it  you  wish  to  know,  sir?" 

"Whether,  if  Mary  O'Neill  is  unable  from  any  cause  to 
keep  control  of  her  child  (which  God  forbid!),  her  father 
intends  to  take  possession  of  it." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  If  the  mother  dies,  for  instance, 
her  father  will  be  the  child's  legal  guardian." 

"But  if  by  that  time  the  father  is  dead  too — what  then?" 

"Then  the  control  of  the  child  will — with  the  consent  of 
the  court — devolve  upon  his  heir  and  representative. ' ' 

"Meaning  this  lady?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  woman 
MacLeod,  who  was  now  standing  at  the  back  of  Daniel 
O'NeilTs  chair. 

"Possibly." 

"And  what  will  she  do  with  it?" 

"Do  with  it?" 

The  lawyer  was  running  his  fingers  through  his  long  beard 
and  trying  to  look  perplexed. 

"Mr.  Curphy,  111  ask  you  not  to  pretend  to  be  unable  to 
understand  me.  If  and  when  this  lady  gets  possession  of 
Mary  O'Neill's  child,  what  is  she  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  advocate,  seeing  I  meant  business, 
"since  my  client  permits  me  to  speak,  I'll  tell  you  plainly. 
Whatever  the  child's  actual  parentage  .  .  .  perhaps  you 
know  best  .  .  ." 

"Go  on,  sir." 

"Whatever  the  child's  parentage,  it  was  born  in  wedlock. 


I  AM  FOUND 

Even  the  recent  divorce  proceedings  have  not  disturbed  that. 
Therefore  we  hold  that  the  child  has  a  right  to  the  inherit- 
ance which  in  due  time  should  come  to  Mary  O'Neill's  off- 
spring by  the  terms  of  the  settlement  upon  her  husband." 

It  was  just  as  I  expected,  and  every  drop  of  my  blood  boiled 
at  the  thought  of  my  darling's  child  in  the  hands  of  that 
frozen-hearted  woman. 

"So  that  is  the  law,  is  it?" 

"That  is  the  law  in  Elian." 

"In  the  event  of  Mary  O'Neill's  death,  and  her  father's 
death,  her  child  and  all  its  interests  will  come  into  the  hands 
ol  .  .  ." 

"Of  her  father's  heir  and  representative." 

"Meaning,  again,  this  lady?" 

"Probably." 

The  woman  at  the  back  of  the  chair  began  to  look  restless. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  she  said,  "if  your  repeated  references 
to  me  are  intended  to  reflect  upon  my  character,  or  my  ability 
to  bring  up  the  child  well  and  look  after  its  interests 
properly." 

"They  are,  madam — they  most  certainly  and  assuredly 
are,"  I  answered. 

"Daniel!"  she  cried. 

"Be  quiet,  gel,"  said  Daniel  O'NeflL  "Let  the  man  speak. 
Well  see  what  he  has  come  for  presently.  Go  on,  sir." 

I  took  him  at  his  word,  and  was  proceeding  to  say  that  as 
I  understood  things  it  was  intended  to  appeal  to  the  courts 
in  order  to  recover  (nominally  for  the  child)  succession  to 
the  money  which  had  been  settled  on  Mary  O'Neill's  husband 
at  the  time  of  their  marriage,  when  the  old  man  cried,  strug- 
gling again  to  his  feet: 

"There  you  are!  The  money!  It's  the  money  the  man's 
after!  He  took  my  daughter,  and  now  he's  for  taking  my 
fortune — what's  left  of  it,  anyway.  He  shan't,  though!  No, 
by  God  he  shan't!  .  .  .  Go  back  to  your  woman,  sir.  Do 
you  hear  me? — your  woman,  and  tell  her  that  neither  you 
nor  she  shall  touch  one  farthing  of  my  fortune.  I'm  seeing 
to  that  now.  It's  what  we're  here  for  to-night — before  that 
damnable  operation  to-morrow,  for  nobody  knows  what  win 
come  of  it  She  has  defied  me  and  ruined  me,  and  made  me 
the  byword  of  the  island,  God's  curse  on  her.  .  .  ." 

"Daniel!    Daniel!"  cried  the  MacLeod  woman,  trying  to 


564  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

pacify  the  infuriated  madman  and  to  draw  him  back  to  his 
seat. 

I  would  have  given  all  I  had  in  the  world  if  Daniel  0  'Neill 
could  have  been  a  strong  man  at  that  moment,  instead  of 
a  poor  wisp  of  a  thing  with  one  foot  in  the  grave.  But  I 
controlled  myself  as  well  as  I  could  and  said: 

"Mr.  O'Neill,  your  daughter  doesn't  want  your  fortune, 
and  as  for  myself,  you  and  your  money  are  no  more  to  me 
than  an  old  hen  sitting  on  a  nest  of  addled  eggs.  Give  it  to 
the  lady  at  the  back  of  your  chair — she  has  earned  it, 
apparently. ' ' 

"Really,"  said  the  Bishop,  who  had  at  length  recovered 
from  Father  Dan's  onslaught.  "Really,  Sir  What-ever-your- 
name  is,  this  is  too  outrageous — that  you  should  come  to  this 
lonely  house  at  this  time  of  night,  interrupting  most  urgent 
business,  not  to  speak  of  serious  offices,  and  make  injurious 
insinuations  against  the  character  of  a  respectable  person — 
you,  sir,  who  had  the  audacity  to  return  openly  to  the  island 
with  the  partner  of  your  sin,  and  to  lodge  her  in  the  house  of 
your  own  mother — your  own  mother,  sir,  though  Heaven 
knows  what  kind  of  mother  it  can  be  who  harbours  her  son's 
sin-laden  mistress,  his  woman,  as  our  sick  friend  says.  .  .  . " 

Lord!  how  my  hands  itched!  But  controlling  myself 
again,  with  a  mighty  effort  I  said: 

"Monsignor,  I  don't  think  I  should  advise  you  to  say  that 
again. ' ' 

"Why  not,  sir?" 

"Because  I  have  a  deep  respect  for  your  «loth  and  should 
be  sorry  to  see  it  soiled." 

"Violence!"  cried  the  Bishop,  rising  to  his  feet.  "You 
threaten  me  with  violence?  ...  Is  there  no  policeman 
in  this  parish,  Mr.  Curphy?" 

"There's  one  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  Bishop,"  I  said. 
"I  brought  him  along  with  me.  I  should  have  brought  the 
High  Bailiff  too,  if  there  had  been  time.  You  would  perhaps 
be  no  worse  for  a  few  witnesses  to  the  business  that  seems  to 
be  going  on  here." 

Saying  this,  as  I  pointed  to  the  papers  on  the  table,  I  had 
hit  harder  than  I  knew,  for  both  the  Bishop  and  the  lawyer 
(who  had  also  risen)  dropped  back  into  their  seats  and  looked 
at  each  other  with  expressions  of  surprise. 

Then,  stepping  up  to  the  table,  so  as  to  face  the  four  of 
them,  I  said,  as  calmly  and  deliberately  as  I  could: 


I  AM  FOUND  565 

"Now  listen  to  me.  I  am  leaving  this  island  in  about  three 
weeks  time,  and  expect  to  be  two  years — perhaps  three  years 
—away.  Mary  O'Neill  is  going  with  me — as  my  wife.  She 
intends  to  leave  her  child  in  the  care  of  my  mother,  and  I 
intend  to  promise  her  that  she  may  set  her  mind  at  ease  that 
it  shall  never  under  any  circumstances  be  taken  away.  You 
seem  to  have  made  up  your  minds  that  she  is  going  to  die. 
Please  God  she  may  disappoint  your  expectations  and  come 
back  strong  and  well.  But  if  she  does  not,  and  I  have  to 
return  alone,  and  if  I  find  that  her  child  has  been  removed 
from  the  protection  in  which  she  left  it,  do  you  know  what  I 
shall  do?" 

' '  Go  to  the  courts,  I  presume, ' '  said  the  lawyer. 

"Oh  dear,  no!  I'll  go  to  no  courts,  Mr.  Curphy.  I'll  go 
to  the  people  who  have  set  the  courts  in  motion — which  means 
that  I  '11  go  to  you  and  you  and  you  and  you.  Heaven  knows 
how  many  of  us  may  be  living  when  that  day  comes;  but  as 
surely  as  I  am,  if  I  find  that  the  promise  I  made  to  Mary 
O'Neill  has  been  a  vain  one,  and  that  her  child  is  under  this 
woman's  control  and  the  subject  of  a  lawsuit  about  this  man's 
money,  and  she  in  her  grave,  as  surely  as  the  Lord  God  is 
above  us  there  isn't  one  soul  of  you  here  present  who  will 
be  alive  the  following  morning." 

That  seemed  to  be  enough  for  all  of  them.  Even  old  Daniel 
O'Neill  (the  only  man  in  the  house  who  had  an  ounce  of  fight 
in  him)  dropped  his  head  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  mouth 
wide  open  and  his  broken  teeth  showing  behind  his  discoloured 
lips. 

I  thought  Father  Dan  would  have  been  waiting  for  me 
under  the  trammon  on  "the  street,"  but  he  had  gone  back  to 
the  Presbytery  and  sent  Tommy  the  Mate  to  lead  me  through 
the  mist  and  the  by-lanes  to  the  main  road. 

The  old  salt  seemed  to  have  a  ' '  skute ' '  into  the  bad  business 
which  had  brought  out  the  Bishop  and  the  lawyer  at  that  late 
hour,  and  on  parting  from  me  at  the  gate  of  Sunny  Lodge 
he  said : 

" Lord-a-massy  me,  what  for  hasn't  ould  Tom  Dug  a  fortune 
coming  to  him?" 

And  when  I  asked  him.  what  he  would  do  with  a  fortune  if 
he  had  one  he  answered: 

"Do?  Have  a  tunderin'  [thundering]  good  law-shoot  and 
sattle  some  o'  them  big  fellas." 

Going  to  bed  in  the  "Plough"  that  night,  I  had  an  ugly 


566  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

vision  of  the  scene  being  enacted  in  the  cottage  on  the  curragh 
(a  scene  not  without  precedent  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
though  the  priesthood  as  a  whole  is  so  pure  and  noble) — the 
midnight  marriage  of  a  man  dying  in  unnatural  hatred  of  his 
own  daughter  (and  she  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world) 
while  the  priest  and  the  prostitute  divided  the  spoils. 

[END  OF  MABTIN  CONRAD'S  MEMORANDUM] 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTEENTH  CHAPTER 

JULY  25.  The  old  doctor  brought  me  such  sad  and  startling 
news  to-day.  My  poor  father  is  dead — died  yesterday,  after  an 
operation  which  he  had  deferred  too  long,  refusing  to  believe 
it  necessary. 

The  dreadful  fact  has  hitherto  been  kept  secret  not  only 
from  me  but  from  everybody,  out  of  fear  of  legal  proceedings 
arising  from  the  failure  of  banks,  &c.,  which  has  brought  the 
whole  island  to  the  verge  of  bankruptcy. 

He  was  buried  this  morning  at  old  St.  Mary's — very  early, 
almost  before  daybreak,  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  Bishop, 
who  wished  to  catch  the  first  steamer  en  route  for  Rome. 

,As  a  consequence  of  these  strange  arrangements,  and  the 
secrecy  that  has  surrounded  my  father's  life  of  late,  people 
are  saying  that  he  is  not  dead  at  all,  that  in  order  to  avoid 
prosecution  he  has  escaped  from  the  island  (going  off  with 
the  Bishop  in  a  sort  of  disguise),  and  that  the  coffin  put  into 
the  grave  this  morning  did  not  contain  a  human  body. 

' '  But  that 's  all  wrong, ' '  said  the  old  doctor.  ' '  Your  father 
is  really  dead  and  buried,  and  the  strange  man  who  went  away 
with  the  Bishop  was  the  London  surgeon  who  performed  the 
operation. ' ' 

I  can  hardly  realise  it — that  the  strong,  stalwart  being,  the 
stern  old  lion  wiiose  heavy  foot,  tramping  through  my  poor 
mother's  room,  used  to  make  the  very  house  shake,  is  gone. 

He  died  as  he  had  lived,  it  seems.  To  the  last  self-centred, 
inflexible,  domineering — a  peasant  yet  a  great  man  (if  great- 
ness is  to  be  measured  by  power),  ranking,  I  think,  in  his 
own  little  scene  of  life  with  the  tragic  figures  of  history. 

I  have  spent  the  day  in  bitter  grief.  Ever  since  I  was  a 
child  there  has  been  a  dark  shadow  between  my  father  and 
me.  He  was  like  a  beetling  mountain,  always  hanging  over 
my  head.  I  wonder  whether  he  wished  to  see  me  at  the  end. 
Perhaps  he  did,  and  was  over-persuaded  by  the  cold  and 


I  AM  FOUND  567 

savourless  nature  of  Xessy  MacLeod,  who  is  giving  it  out,  I 
hear,  that  grief  and  shame  for  me  killed  him. 

People  will  say  he  was  a  vulgar  parvenu,  a  sycophant,  a 
snob — heaven  knows  what.  All  wrong!  For  the  true  reading 
of  his  character  one  has  to  go  back  to  the  day  when  he  was 
a  ragged  boy  and  the  liveried  coachman  of  the  "bad  Lord 
Raa"  lashed  at  his  mother  on  the  road,  and  he  swore  that 
when  he  was  a  man  she  should  have  a  carriage  of  her  own, 
and  then  "nobody  should  never  lash  her." 

He  found  Gessler's  cap  in  the  market-place  and  was  no 
more  willing  than  Tell  to  bend  the  knee  to  it. 

My  poor  father !  He  did  wrong  to  use  another  life,  another 
soul,  for  either  his  pride  or  his  revenge.  But  God  knows  best 
how  it  will  be  with  him,  and  if  he  was  the  first  cause  of  making 
my  life  what  it  has  been,  I  send  after  him  (I  almost  tremble 
to  say  it),  if  not  my  love,  my  forgiveness. 

JULY  26.  I  begin  to  realise  that  after  all  I  was  not  romanc- 
ing when  I  told  the  old  dears  that  Martin  and  his  schemes 
would  collapse  if  I  failed  him.  Poor  boy,  he  is  always  talking 
as  if  everything  depended  upon  me.  It  is  utterly  frightening 
to  think  what  would  happen  to  the  Expedition  if  he  thought 
I  could  not  sail  with  him  on  the  sixteenth. 

Martin  is  not  one  of  the  men  who  weep  for  their  wives  as  if 
the  sun  had  suffered  eclipse,  and  then  marry  again  before 
their  graves  are  green.  So,  having  begun  on  my  great  scheme 
of  pretending  that  I  am  getting  better  every  day,  and  shall  be 
"ready  to  go,  never  fear,"  I  have  to  keep  it  up. 

I  begin  to  suspect,  though,  that  I  am  not  such  a  wonderful 
actress  after  all.  Sometimes  in  the  midst  of  my  raptures  I  see 
him  looking  at  me  uneasily  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  a  certain 
effort.  At  such  moments  I  have  to  avoid  his  eyes  lest  any- 
thing should  happen,  for  my  great  love  seems  to  be  always 
lying  in  wait  to  break  down  my  make-believe. 

To-day  (though  I  had  resolved  not  to  give  way  to  tears) 
when  he  was  talking  about  the  voyage  out,  and  how  it  would 
"set  me  up"  and  how  the  invigorating  air  of  the  Antarctic 
would  "make  another  woman  of  me,"  I  cried: 

"How  splendid!     How  glorious!" 

"Then  why  are  you  crying?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  good  gracious,  that's  nothing— for  me,"  I  answered. 

But  if  I  am  throwing  dust  in  Martin's  eyes  I  am  deceiving 
nobody  else,  it  seems.  To-night  after  he  and  Dr.  0 'Sullivan 


568  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

had  gone  back  to  the  "Plough,"  Father  Dan  came  in  to  ask 
Christian  Ann  how  she  found  me,  and  being  answered  rather 
sadly,  I  heard  him  say: 

"Ugh  cha  nee!  [Woe  is  me!]  What  is  life?  It  is  even 
a  vapour  which  appeareth  for  a  little  while  and  then  vanish- 
eth  away." 

And  half  an  hour  later,  when  old  Tommy  came  to  bring  me 
some  lobsters  (he  still  declares  they  are  the  only  food  for 
invalids)  and  to  ask  "how's  the  lil  woman  now?"  I  heard 
him  moaning,  as  he  was  going  out: 

"There'll  be  no  shelter  for  her  this  voyage,  the  vogh! 
She'll  carry  the  sea  in  with  her  to  the  Head,  I'm  thinking." 

JULY  27.  I  must  keep  it  up — I  must,  I  must!  To  allow 
Martin's  hopes  and  dreams  to  be  broken  in  upon  now  would 
be  enough  to  kill  me  outright. 

I  don't  want  to  be  unkind,  but  some  explorers  leave  the 
impression  that  their  highest  impulse  is  the  praise  of  achieve- 
ment, and  once  they  have  done  something  all  they  've  got  to  do 
next  is  to  stay  at  home  and  talk  about  it.  Martin  is  not  like 
that.  Exploration  is  a  passion  with  him.  The  "lure  of  the 
little  voices"  and  the  "call  of  the  Unknown"  have  been  with 
him  from  the  beginning,  and  they  will  be  with  him  to  the  end. 

I  cannot  possibly  think  of  Martin  dying  in  bed,  and  being 
laid  to  rest  in  the  green  peace  of  English  earth — dear  and 
sweet  as  that  is  to  tamer  natures,  mine  for  instance.  I  can 
only  think  of  that  wild  heroic  soul  going  up  to  God  from  the 
broad  white  wilderness  of  the  stormy  South,  and  leaving  his 
body  under  heaving  hummocks  of  snow  with  blizzards  blowing 
a  requiem  over  his  grave. 

Far  off  may  that  glorious  ending  be,  but  shall  my  poor 
failing  heart  make  it  impossible?  Never,  never,  never! 

Moral — I  'm  going  to  get  up  every  day — whatever  my  nurse 
may  say. 

JULY  28.  I  was  rocking  baby  to  sleep  this  afternoon  when 
Christian  Ann,  who  was  spinning  by  the  fire,  told  me  of  a 
quarrel  between  Aunt  Bridget  and  Nessy  MacLeod. 

It  seems  that  Nessy  (who  says  she  was  married  to  my 
father  immediately  before  the  operation)  claims  to  be  the  heir- 
ess of  all  that  is  left,  and  as  the  estate  includes  the  Big  House 
she  is  ' '  putting  the  law  on ' '  Aunt  Bridget  to  obtain  possession. 

Poor  Aunt  Bridget !  What  a  pitiful  end  to  all  her  scheming 
for  Betsy  Beauty,  all  her  cruelties  to  my  long-suffering 


I  AM  FOUND  569 

mother,  all  her  treatment  of  me— to  be  turned  out  of  doors 

by  her  own  step-daughter! 

When  old  Tommy  heard  of  the  lawsuit,  he  said : 

"Chut!     Sarves  her  right,  I  say!     It's  the  black  life  the 

Big  Woman  lived  before,  and  it's  the  black  life  she'll  be  living 

now,  and  her  growing  old,  and  the  Death  looking  in  on  her." 

JULY  29.  We  have  finished  the  proofs  to-day  and  Dr. 
0 'Sullivan  has  gone  back  with  them.  I  thought  he  looked 
rather  ivae  when  he  came  to  say  good-bye  to  me,  and  though 
he  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  his  voice  was  husky  when 
(swearing  by  his  favourite  Saints)  he  talked  about  "returning 
for  the  tenth  with  all  the  boys,  including  Treacle." 

Of  course  that  was  nonsense  about  his  being  in  love  with 
me.  But  I'm  sure  he  loves  me  all  the  same — many,  many 
people  love  me.  I  don 't  know  what  I  've  done  to  deserve  all  this 
love.  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  love  in  my  life  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it. 

We  worked  hard  over  the  last  of  the  proofs,  and  I  suppose 
I  was  tired  at  the  end  of  them,  for  when  Martin  carried  me 
upstairs  to-night  there  was  less  laughter  than  usual,  and  I 
thought  he  looked  serious  as  he  set  me  down  by  the  bed. 

I  bantered  him  about  that  ("A  penny  for  your  thoughts, 
mister"),  but  towards  midnight  the  truth  flashed  upon  me — 
I  am  becoming  thinner  and  therefore  lighter  every  day,  and 
he  is  beginning  to  notice  it. 

Moral — I  must  try  to  walk  upstairs  in  future. 

JULY  30.  Ah,  me !  It  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  a  race 
between  me  and  the  Expedition — which  shall  come  off  first — 
and  sometimes  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  be  the  loser! 

Martin  ought  to  sail  on  the  sixteenth — only  seventeen  days ! 
I  am  expected  to  be  married  on  the  tenth — only  eleven!  Oh, 
Mary  O'Neill,  what  a  strange  contradictory  war  you  are 
waging!  Look  straight  before  you,  dear,  and  don't  be  afraid. 

I  had  a  letter  from  the  Reverend  Mother  this  evening.  She 
is  crossing  from  Ireland  to-morrow,  which  is  earlier  than  she 
intended,  so  I  suppose  Father  Dan  must  have  sent  for  her. 

I  do  hope  Martin  and  she  will  get  on  comfortably  together. 
A  struggle  between  my  religion  and  my  love  would  be  more 
than  I  could  bear  now. 

JULY  31.  When  I  awoke  this  morning  very  late  (I  had 
slept  after  daybreak)  I  was  thinking  of  the  Reverend  Mother, 


570  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

but  lo!  who  should  come  into  the  room  but  the  doctor  from 
Blackwater ! 

He  was  very  nice;  said  I  had  promised  to  let  him  see  me 
again,  so  he  had  taken  me  at  my  word. 

I  watched  him  closely  while  he  examined  me,  and  I  could 
see  that  he  was  utterly  astonished — couldn't  understand  how 
I  came  to  be  alive — and  said  he  would  never  again  deny  the 
truth  of  the  old  saying  about  dying  of  a  broken  heart,  be- 
cause I  was  clearly  living  by  virtue  of  a  whole  one. 

I  made  pretence  of  wanting  something  in  order  to  get 
nurse  out  of  the  room,  and  then  reached  up  to  the  strange 
doctor  and  whispered  "When?" 

He  wasn't  for  telling  me,  talked  about  the  miraculous 
power  of  God  which  no  science  could  reckon  with,  but  at  last 
I  got  a  word  out  of  him  which  made  me  happy,  or  at  least 
content. 

Perhaps  it's  sad,  but  many  things  look  brighter  that  are 
far  more  sorrowful — dying  of  a  broken  heart,  for  example, 
and  (whatever  else  is  amiss  with  me)  mine  is  not  broken,  but 
healed,  gloriously  healed,  after  its  bruises,  so  thank  God  for 
that,  anyway! 


Just  had  some  heavenly  sleep  and  such  a  sweet  dream !  I 
thought  my  darling  mother  came  to  me.  "You're  cold,  my 
child,"  she  said,  and  then  covered  me  up  in  the  bedclothes. 
I  talked  about  leaving  my  baby,  and  she  said  she  had  had  to 
do  the  same — leaving  me.  "That's  what  we  mothers  come 
to — so  many  of  us — but  heaven  is  over  all,"  she  whispered. 

AUGUST  1.  I  really  cannot  understand  myself,  so  it  isn't 
a  matter  for  much  surprise  if  nobody  else  understands  me. 
In  spite  of  what  the  strange  doctor  said  yesterday  I  dressed 
up  grandly  to-day,  not  only  in  my  tea-gown,  but  some  beau- 
tiful old  white  Irish  lace  which  nurse  lent  me  to  wrap  about 
my  throat. 

I  think  the  effect  was  rather  good,  and  when  I  went  down- 
stairs leaning  on  nurse's  shoulder,  there  was  Martin  waiting 
for  me,  and  though  he  did  not  speak  (couldn't  perhaps),  the 
look  that  came  into  his  blue  eyes  was  the  same  as1  on  that 
last  night  at  Castle  Raa  when  he  said  something  about  a 
silvery  fir-tree  with  its  dark  head  against  the  sky. 

Oh,  my  own  darling,  I  could  wish  to  live  for  you,  such  as  I 


I  AM  FOUND  571 

am,  if  I  could  be  of  any  use,  if  I  would  not  be  a  hindrance 
rather  than  a  help,  if  our  union  were  right,  if,  in  short,  God 
Himself  had  not  already  answered  to  all  such  questionings 
and  beseechings,  His  great,  unalterable,  irrevocable  No! 

AUGUST  2.  The  Reverend  Mother,  who  arrived  in  the 
island  last  night,  has  been  with  me  all  day.  I  think  she 
knows,  for  she  has  said  nothing  more  about  the  convent — only 
(with  her  eyes  so  soft  and  tender)  that  she  intends  to  remain 
with  me  a  little  while,  having  need  of  rest  herself. 

To  my  surprise  and  joy,  Martin  and  she  have  got  on 
famously.  This  evening  she  told  me  that,  in  spite  of  all  (1 
know  what  she  meant  by  that),  she  is  willing  to  believe  that 
he  is  a  true  man,  and,  notwithstanding  his  unhappy  opinions 
about  the  Church,  a  Christian  gentleman. 

Such  a  touching  thing  happened  to-day.  We  were  all 
sitting  in  the  garden,  (sun  warm,  light  breeze  off  the  sea, 
ripe  corn  chattering  in  the  field  opposite),  when  I  felt  a  tug- 
ging at  my  skirts,  and  who  should  it  be  but  Isabel,  who  had 
been  crawling  along  the  dry  grass  plucking  daisies,  and  now, 
dragging  herself  up  to  my  side,  emptied  them  into  my  lap. 

No,  I  will  not  give  way  to  tears  any  more  as  long  as  I  live, 
yet  it  rather  "touches  me  up,"  as  Martin  says,  to  see  how 
one's  vainest  dreams  seem  to  come  to  pass. 

I  don't  know  if  Martin  thought  I  was  going  to  break 
down,  but  he  rattled  away  about  Girlie  having  two  other 
mothers  now — Grandma,  who  would  keep  her  while  we  were 
down  South,  and  the  Reverend  Mother,  who  would  take  her 
to  school  when  she  was  old  enough. 

So  there's  nothing  more  to  fear  about  baby. 

But  what  about  Martin  himself?  Am  I  dealing  fairly 
in  allowing  him  to  go  on  with  his  preparations?  Isn't  it  a 
kind  of  cruelty  not  to  tell  him  the  truth? 

This  problem  is  preying  on  my  mind.  If  I  could  only  get 
some  real  sleep  perhaps  I  could  solve  it. 

AUGUST  3.  I  am  growing  weaker  every  day.  No  pain ;  no 
cough;  nothing  but  exhaustion.  Father  Dan  told  me  this 
morning  that  I  was  growing  more  than  ever  like  my  mother — 
that  "sweet  saint  whom  the  Lord  has  made  His  own."  I 
know  what  he  means — like  her  as  she  was  at  the  last. 

My  poor  old  priest  is  such  a  child!  A  good  old  man  is 
always  a  child — a  woman  can  see  through  and  through  him. 

Ak,  me !    I  am  cared  for  now  as  I  never  was  before,  yet  I 


572  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

feel  like  baby  when  she  is  tired  after  walking  round  the 
chairs  and  comes  to  be  nursed.  What  children  we  all  are  at 
the  end — just  children! 

AUGUST  4.  Father  Dan  came  across,  in  breathless  excite- 
ment to-day.  It  seems  the  poor  soul  has  been  living  in  daily 
dread  of  some  sort  of  censure  from  Rome  through  his  Bishop 
— about  his  toleration  of  me,  I  suppose — but  behold !  it 's  the 
Bishop  himself  who  has  suffered  censure,  having  been  sent 
into  quarantine  at  one  of  the  Roman  Colleges  and  forbidden 
to  return  to  his  diocese. 

And  now,  lo!  a  large  sum  of  money  comes  from  Rome  for 
the  poor  of  Elian,  to  be  distributed  by  Father  Dan ! 

I  think  I  know  whose  money  it  is  that  has  been  returned; 
but  the  dear  Father  suspects  nothing,  and  is  full  of  a  great 
scheme  for  a  general  thanksgiving,  with  a  procession  of  our 
village  people  to  old  St.  Mary's  and  then  Rosary  and  Bene- 
diction. 

It  is  to  come  off  on  the  afternoon  of  the  tenth,  it  seems,  my 
last  day  in  Elian,  after  my  marriage,  but  before  my  depar- 
ture. 

How  God  governs  everything! 

AUGUST  6.  It  is  really  wrong  of  me  to  allow  Martin  to  go 
on.  This  morning  he  told  me  he  had  bought  the  special  license 
for  our  marriage,  and  this  evening  he  showed  me  our  tickets 
for  Sydney — two  berths,  first  cabin,  steadiest  part  of  the  ship. 

Oh,  my  dear  heart,  if  you  only  knew  that  I  have  had  my 
ticket  these  many  days,  and  that  it  is  to  take  me  out  first  on 
the  Great  Expedition — to  the  still  bigger  Unknown,  the 
Everlasting  Sea,  the  Immeasurable  Eternity! 

I  must  be  brave.  Although  I  am  a  little  cowardly  some- 
times, I  can  be  brave. 

I  have  definitely  decided  to-night  that  I  will  tell  him.  But 
how  can  I  look  into  his  face  and  say.  .  .  . 

AUGUST  7.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  write  to  Martin. 
One  can  say  things  so  much  easier  in  a  letter — I  can,  any- 
way. Even  my  voice  affects  me — swelling  and  falling  when 
I  am  moved,  like  a  billow  on  the  ocean. 

I  find  my  writing  cannot  any  longer  be  done  in  a  sitting 
position  in  bed,  b»t  I  can  prop  my  book  on  my  breast  and 
write  lying  down. 


I  AM  FOUND  573 


MARY  O'NEILL'S  LETTER  TO  MARTIN  CONRAD 

August  9th,  6  A.M. 

MY  OWN  DARLING, — Strengthen  yourself  for  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  It  will  be  very  hard  for  you — I  know  that,  dear. 

To-morrow  we  were  to  have  gone  to  the  High  Bailiff;  this 
day  week  we  were  to  have  sailed  for  Sydney,  and  two  months 
hence  we  were  to  have  reached  Winter  Quarters. 

But  I  cannot  go  with  you  to  the  High  Bailiff's;  I  cannot 
go  with  you  to  Sydney;  I  cannot  go  with  you  to  Winter 
Quarters;  I  cannot  go  anywhere  from  here.  It  is  impossible, 
quite  impossible. 

I  have  loved  too  much,  dear,  so  the  power  of  life  is  burnt 
out  for  me.  My  great  love — love  for  my  mother,  for  my 
darling  baby,  and  above  all  for  you — has  consumed  me  and  I 
cannot  live  much  longer. 

Forgive  me  for  not  telling  you  this  before — for  deceiving 
you  bj-  saying  that  I  was  getting  better  and  growing  stronger 
when  I  knew  I  was  not.  I  used  to  think  it  was  cowardice 
which  kept  me  from  telling  you  the  truth,  but  I  see  now  that 
it  was  love,  too. 

I  was  so  greedy  of  the  happiness  I  have  had  since  I  came  to 
this  house  of  love  that  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  the  loss 
of  it.  You  will  try  to  understand  that  (won't  you,  dear?), 
and  so  forgive  me  for  keeping  you  in  the  dark  down  to  the 
very  last  moment. 

This  will  be  a  great  grief  to  you.  I  would  die  with  a  glad 
heart  to  save  you  a  moment's  pain,  yet  I  could  not  die  at 
ease  if  I  did  not  think  you  would  miss  me  and  grieve  for  me. 
I  like  to  think  that  in  the  time  to  come  people  will  say, 
"Once  he  loved  Mary  O'Neill,  and  now  there  is  no  other 
woman  in  the  world  for  him. ' '  I  should  not  be  a  woman  if  I 
did  not  feel  like  that — should  I? 

But  don't  grieve  too  much,  dearest.  Only  think!  If  I 
had  been  strong  and  had  years  and  years  still  to  live,  what 
a  life  would  have  been  before  me — before  both  of  us. 

We  couldn't  have  lived  apart,  could  we?  And  if  we  had 
married  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  shake  off  the 
thought  that  the  world,  which  would  always  be  opening  its 
arms  to  you,  did  not  want  me.  That  would  be  so,  wouldn't 
it — after  all  I  have  gone  through?  The  world  never  for- 
gives a  woman  for  the  injuries  it  inflicts  on  her  itself,  and  I 


574  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

have  had  too  many  wounds,  darling,  to  stand  by  your  side 
and  be  any  help  to  you. 

Oh,  I  know  what  you  would  say,  dearest.  "She  gave  up 
everything  for  love  of  me,  choosing  poverty,  obscurity,  and 
pain  above  wealth  and  rank  and  ease,  and  therefore  I  will 
choose  her  before  everything  else  in  the  world."  But  I  know 
what  would  come  to  us  in  the  end,  dear,  and  I  should  always 
feel  that  your  love  for  me  had  dragged  you  down,  closed 
many  of  the  doors  of  life  to  you.  I  should  know  that  you 
were  always  hearing  behind  you  the  echoing  footsteps  of  my 
fate,  and  that  is  the  only  thing  I  could  not  bear. 

Besides,  my  darling,  there  is  something  else  between  us  in 
this  world — the  Divine  Commandment!  Our  blessed  Lord 
says  we  can  never  be  man  and  wife,  and  there  is  no  getting 
beyond  that,  is  there? 

Oh,  don't  think  I  reproach  myself  with  loving  you — that 
I  think  it  a  sin  to  do  so.  I  do  not  now,  and  never  shall.  He 
who  made  my  heart  what  it  is  must  know  that  I  am  doing  no 
wrong. 

And  don't  think  I  regret  that  night  at  Castle  Raa.  If  I 
have  to  answer  to  God  for  that  I  will  do  so  without  fear, 
because  I  know  He  will  know  that,  when  the  cruelty  and 
self-seeking  of  others  were  trying  to  control  my  most  sacred 
impulses,  I  was  only  claiming  the  right  He  gave  me  to  be 
mistress  of  myself  and  sovereign  of  my  soul. 

You  must  not  regret  it  either,  dearest,  or  reproach  yourself 
in  any  way,  for  when  we  stand  together  before  God's  foot- 
stool He  will  see  that  from  the  beginning  I  was  yours  and 
you  were  mine,  and  He  will  cover  us  with  the  wings  of  His 
loving  mercy. 

Then  don't  think,  dear,  that  I  have  ever  looked  upon  what 
happened  afterwards — first  in  Elian  and  then  in  London — 
as,  in  any  sense,  a  punishment.  I  have  never  done  that  at 
any  time,  and  now  I  believe  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
that,  if  I  suffered  while  you  were  away,  it  was  not  for  my 
sin  but  my  salvation. 

Think,  dear!  If  you  and  I  had  never  met  again  after  my 
marriage,  and  if  I  had  gone  on  living  with  the  man  they 
had  married  me  to,  my  soul  would  have  shrivelled  up  and 
died.  That  is  what  happens  to  the  souls  of  so  many  poor 
women  who  are  fettered  for  life  to  coarse  and  degrading 
husbands.  But  my  soul  has  not  died,  dearest,  and  it  is  not 
dying,  whatever  my  poor  body  may  do,  so  I  thank  my  gracious 


I  AM  FOUND  575 

God  for  the  sweet  and  pure  and  noble  love  that  has  kept  it 
alive. 

All  the  same,  my  darling,  to  marry  again  is  another  mat- 
ter. I  took  my  vow  before  the  altar,  dear,  and  however 
ignorantly  I  took  it,  or  under  whatever  persuasion  or  con- 
straint, it  is  registered  in  heaven. 

It  cannot  be  for  nothing,  dear,  that  our  blessed  Lord  made 
that  stern  Commandment.  The  Church  may  have  given  a 
wrong  interpretation  to  it — you  say  it  has,  and  I  am  too 
ignorant  to  answer  you,  even  if  I  wished  to,  which  I  don't. 
But  I  am  sure  my  Lord  foresaw  all  such  mistakes,  and  all  the 
hardships  that  would  come  to  many  poor  women  (perhaps 
some  men,  too),  as  well  as  the  wreck  the  world  might  fall  to 
for  want  of  this  unyielding  stay,  when  He  issued  His  divine 
and  irrevocable  law  that  never  under  any  circumstances 
should  marriage  be  broken. 

Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it,  dear,  quite  sure,  and  before  His  un- 
searchable wisdom  I  bow  my  head,  although  my  heart  is  torn. 

Yet  think,  darling,  how  light  is  the  burden  that  is  laid 
upon  us!  Marriage  vows  are  for  this  world  only.  The 
marriage  law  of  the  Church  which  lasts  as  long  as  life  does 
not  go  on  one  moment  longer.  The  instant  death  seta  my 
body  free,  my  soul  may  fly  to  where  it  belongs.  If  I  were 
going  to  live  ten,  twenty,  thirty  years,  this  might  be  cold 
comfort,  but  I  am  not. 

Then  why  should  we  be  sorry  ?  You  cannot  be  mine  in  this 
life  and  I  cannot  be  yours,  so  Death  comes  in  its  mercy  and 
majesty  to  unite  us!  Our  love  wiill  go  far  beyond  life,  and 
the  moment  the  barrier  of  death  is  passed  our  union  will 
begin !  And  once  it  begins  it  will  never  end !  So  Death  is 
not  really  a  separator,  but  a  great  uniter !  Don 't  you  see  that, 
dearest?  One  moment  of  parting — hardly  a  moment,  per- 
haps— and  then  .we  shall  be  together  through  all  Eternity ! 
How  wonderful !  How  glorious !  How  triumphant ! 

Do  you  believe  in  individual  immortality,  dear?  I  do. 
I  believe  that  in  the  other  life  I  shall  meet  and  know  my  dear 
ones  who  are  in  heaven.  More  than  that,  I  believe  that  the 
instant  I  pass  from  this  life  I  shall  live  with  my  dear  ones 
who  are  still  on  earth.  That  is  why  I  am  willing  to  go — be- 
cause I  am  sure  that  the  moment  I  draw  my  last  breath  I 
shall  be  standing  by  your  side. 

So  don 't  let  there  be  any  weeping  for  me,  dear.    ' '  Nothing 


676  THE   WOMAN   THOU   GAVEST   ME 

is  here  for  tears;  nothing  but  well  and  fair."     Always  re- 
member— love  is  immortal. 

I  will  not  say  that  I  could  not  have  wished  to  live  a  little 
longer — if  things  had  been  otherwise  with  both  of  us.  I 
should  like  to  live  to  see  your  book  published  and  your  work 
finished  (I  know  it  will  be  some  day),  and  baby  grow  up  to 
be  a  good  girl  and  a  beautiful  one  too  (for  that's  something, 
isn't  it?)  ;  and  I  should  like  to  live  a, little  longer  for  another 
reason,  a  woman's  reason — simply  to  be  loved,  and  to  be 
told  that  I  am  loved,  for  though  a  woman  may  know  that, 
she  likes  to  hear  it  said  and  is  never  tired  of  hearing  it. 

But  things  have  gone  against  us,  and  it  is  almost  sinfully 
ungrateful  to  regret  anything  when  we  have  so  many  reasons 
for  thankfulness. 

And  then  about  Girlie — I  used  to  think  it  would  be  terrible 
(for  me,  I  mean)  to  die  before  she  could  be  old  enough  to  have 
any  clear  memory  of  her  mother  (such  as  I  have  of  mine)  to 
cherish  and  love — only  the  cold,  blank,  unfilled  by  a  face, 
which  must  be  all  that  remains  to  most  of  those  whose  parents 
passed  away  while  they  were  children.  But  I  am  not  afraid 
of  that  now,  because  I  know  that  in  the  future,  when  our 
little  girl  asks  about  her  mother,  you  will  describe  me  to  her 
as  you  saw  and  remember  me — and  that  will  be  so  much 
sweeter  and  lovelier  than  I  ever  was,  and  it  will  be  such  a  joy 
to  think  that  my  daughter  sees  me  through  her  father's  eyes. 

Besides,  dearest,  there  is  something  still  more  thrilling — 
the  thought  that  Girlie  may  grow  to  be  like  me  (like  what  you 
think  me),  and  that  in  the  time  to  come  she  may  startle  you 
with  undescribable  resemblances,  in  her  voice  or  smile,  or 
laugh,  to  her  mother  in  heaven,  so  that  some  day,  perhaps, 
years  and  years  hence,  when  she  is  quite  grown  up,  she  may 
touch  your  arm  and  you  may  turn  quickly  to  look  at  her,  and 
lo!  it  will  seem  to  you  as  if  Mary  herself  (your  Mary)  were 
by  your  side.  Oh  Death,  where  is  thy  sting?  Oh  grave, 
where  is  thy  victory? 

Go  on  with  your  great  work,  dearest.  Don't  let  it  flag 
from  any  cold  feeling  that  I  am  lost  to  you.  Whenever  you 
think  of  me,  say  to  yourself,  "Alary  is  here;  Love  is  stronger 
than  death,  many  waters  cannot  quench  it." 

Did  you  ever  read  Browning  ?  I  have  been  doing  so  during 
the  last  few  days,  nurse  (she  is  quite  a  thoughtful  woman) 
having  lent  me  his  last  volume.  When  I  read  the  last  lines  of 
what  is  said  to  have  been  his  last  poem  I  thought  of  you,  dear : 


I  AM  FOUND  577 

"No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's,  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
'Strive  and  thrive!'    Cry  'Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here!' ' 

I  am  going  to  get  up  again  to-day,  dear,  having  something 
to  do  that  is  just  a  little  important — to  give  you  this  manu- 
script book,  in  which  I  have  been  writing  every  day  (or 
rather  every  night  since  you  found  me  in  London. 

You  will  see  what  it  is,  and  why  it  was  written,  so  I'll  say 
no  more  on  that  subject. 

I  am  afraid  you  '11  find  it  very  egotistical,  being  mainly  about 
myself;  but  I  seem  to  have  been  looking  into  my  soul  all 
the  time,  and  when  one  does  that,  and  gets  down  to  the  deep 
places,  one  meets  all  oiher  souls  there,  so  perhaps  I  have  been 
writing  the  lives  of  some  women  .as  well. 

I  once  thought  I  could  write  a  real  book  (you'll  see  what 
vain  and  foolish  things  I  thought,  especially  in  my  darker 
moments)  to  show  what  a  woman's  life  may  be  when,  from 
any  cause  whatsoever,  she  is  denied  .the  right  God  gave  her 
of  choosing  the  best  for  herself  and  her  children. 

There  is  a  dream  lying  somewhere  there,  dear,  which  is 
stirring  the  slumber  of  mankind,  but  the  awakening  will  not 
be  in  my  time  certainly,  and  perhaps  not  even  in  Girlie's. 

And  yet,  why  not  ? 

Do  you  knoAv,  dearest,  what  it  was  in  your  wonderful  book 
which  thrilled  me  most?  It  was  your  description  of  the 
giant  iceberg  you  passed  in  the  Antarctic  Ocean — five  hundred 
feet  above  the  surface  of  the  sea  and  therefore  five  hundred 
below  it,  going  steadily  on  and  on,  against  all  the  force  of 
tempestuous  wind  and  wave,  by  power  of  the  current  under- 
neath. 

Isn't  the  movement  of  all  great  things  in  life  like  that, 
dearest?  So  perhaps  the  world  will  be  a  better  place  for 
Girlie  than  it  has  been  for  me.  And  in  any  case,  I  shall 
always  feel  that,  after  all  and  in  spite  of  everything,  it  has 
been  glorious  to  be  a  woman. 


And  now,  my  own  darling,  though  we  are  only  to  be  sepa- 
rated for  a  little  while,  I  want  to  write  what  I  should  like  to 

20 


578  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

s&y  when  I  part  from  you  to-morrow  if  I  did  not  know  that 
something  in  my  throat  would  choke  me. 

I  want  to  tell  you  again  that  I  love  you  dearly,  that  I  have 
nerer  loved  anybody  but  you,  and  that  no  marriage  vows 
will  keep  me  from  loving  you  to  the  last. 

I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  great,  great  love  you  have 
giren  me  in  return — all  the  way  back  from  the  time  when  I 
was  a  child.  Oh,  my  dearest,  may  God  for  ever  bless  you  for 
the  sunshine  you  have  brought  into  my  life — every  single 
daj  of  it,  joyful  days  and  sorrowful  ones,  bright  days  and 
dark,  but  all  shining  with  the  glory  of  your  love. 

Nerer  allow  yourself  to  think  that  my  life  has  not  been  a 
happy  one.  Looking  back  on  it  now  I  feel  as  if  I  have  always 
had  happiness.  And  when  I  have  not  had  happiness  I  have 
had  something  far  higher  and  better — blessedness. 

I  have  had  such  joy  in  my  life,  dear — joy  in  the  beauty  of 
the  world,  in  the  sunshine  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the 
flowers  and  the  songs  of  the  birds,  and  then  (apart  from  the 
divine  lore  that  is  too  holy  to  speak  about)  in  my  religion,  in 
my  beloved  Church,  in  the  love  of  my  dear  mother  and  my 
sweet  child,  and  above  all — above  all  in  you. 

I  fael  a  sense  of  sacred  thankfulness  to  God  for  giving  you 
to  me,  and  if  it  has  not  been  for  long  in  this  life,  it  will  be 
for  erer  in  the  next. 

So  good-bye,  my  dearest  me — just  for  a  little  moment!  My 
dearest  one,  Good-bye ! 

MARY  O'NEILL. 

MARY  O'NEILL'S  LAST  NOTE 
WRITTEN  ON  THE   FLY-LEAVES   OF   HER  MISSAL 

AUGUST  9-10. 

It  ii  all  orer.  I  have  given  him  my  book.  My  secret  is  out. 
He  know*  now.  I  almost  think  he  has  known  all  along. 

I  had  dressed  even  more  carefully  than  usual,  with  nurse's 
Irish  lace  about  my  neck  as  a  collar,  and  my  black  hair 
brushed  smooth  in  my  mother's  manner,  and  when  I  went 
downstairs  by  help  of  my  usual  kind  crutch  (it  is  wonderful 
how  strong  I  have  been  to-day)  everybody  said  how  much 
better  I  wag  looking. 

Martin  was  there,  and  he  took  me  into  the  garden.  It  was 
a  little  late  in  the  afternoon,  but  such  a  sweet  and  holy  time, 
with  its  clear  air  and  quiet  sunshine — one  of  those  evenings 
wlu»  Nature  is  like  a  nun  "breathless  with  adoration." 


I  AM  FOUND  579 

Although  I  had  a  feeling  that  it  was  to  be  our  last  time 
together  we  talked  on  the  usual  subjects — the  High  Bailiff, 
the  special  license,  "the  boys"  of  the  Scotia  who  were  coming 
over  for  my  wedding,  and  how  some  of  them  would  have  to 
start  out  early  in  the  morning. 

But  it  didn't  matter  what  we  talked  about.  It  was  only 
what  we  felt,  and  I  felt  entirely  happy — sitting  there  in  my 
cushions,  with  my  white  hand  in  his  brown  one,  looking  into 
his  clear  eyes  and  ruddy  face  or  up  to  the  broad  blue  of  the 
sky. 

The  red  sun  had  begun  to  sink  down  behind  the  dark  bar 
of  St.  Mary's  Eock,  and  the  daisies  in  the  garden  to  close 
their  eyes  and  drop  their  heads  in  sleep,  when  Martin  became 
afraid  of  the  dew. 

Then  we  went  back  to  the  house — I  walking  firmly,  by 
Martin's  side,  though  I  held  his  arm  so  close. 

The  old  doctor  was  in  his  consulting  room,  nurse  was  in  my 
room,  and  we  could  hear  Christian  Ann  upstairs  putting  baby 
into  her  darling  white  cot — she  sleeps  with  grandma  now. 

The  time  came  for  me  to  go  up  also,  and  then  I  gave  him 
my  book,  which  I  had  been  carrying  under  my  arm,  telling 
him  to  read  the  last  pages  first. 

Although  we  had  never  spoken  of  my  book  before  he  seemed 
to  know  all  about  it ;  and  it  flashed  upon  me  at  that  moment 
that,  while  I  thought  I  had  been  playing  a  game  of  make- 
believe  with  him,  he  had  been  playing  a  game  of  make-believe 
with  me,  and  had  known  everything  from  the  first.  There 
was  a  certain  relief  in  that,  yet  there  was  a  certain  sting  in 
it,  too.  What  strange  creatures  we  are,  we  women ! 

For  some  moments  we  stood  together  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  holding  each  other 's  hands.  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  he 
was  going  to  break  down  as  he  did  at  Castle  Raa,  and  once 
again  I  had  that  thrilling,  swelling  feeling  (the  most  heavenly 
emotion  that  comes  into  a  woman's  life,  perhaps)  that  I,  the 
weak  one,  had  to  strengthen  the  strong. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  though,  and  then  he  put  his  great 
gentle  arms  about  me,  and  kissed  me  on  the  lips,  and  said, 
silently  but  oh,  so  eloquently,  "Good-bye  darling,  and  God 
bless  you!" 

Then  I  walked  upstairs  alone,  quite  alone,  and  \fken  I 
reached  the  top  he  was  still  at  the  bottom  looking  up  at  me. 
I  smiled  down  to  him,  then  walked  firmly  into  my  room  and 


580  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

up  to  my  bed,  and  then     .     .     .     down,  all  my  strength  gone 
in  a  moment. 


I  have  had  such  a  wonderful  experience  during  the  night. 
It  was  like  a  dream,  and  yet  something  more  than  a  dream. 
I  don't  want  to  make  too  much  of  it — to  say  that  it  was  a 
vision  or  any  supernatural  manifestation  such  as  the  blessed 
Margaret  Mary  speaks  about.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the 
result  of  memory  operating  on  my  past  life,  my  thoughts 
and  desires.  But  perhaps  it  was  something  higher  and  more 
spiritual,  and  God,  for  my  comforting,  has  permitted  me  to 
look  for  one  moment  behind  the  veil. 

I  thought  it  was  to-morrow — my  wedding  day,  and  the 
day  of  Father  Dan's  thanksgiving  celebration — and  I  was 
sitting  by  my  French  window  (which  was  wide  open)  to  look 
at  the  procession. 

I  seemed  to  see  everything — Father  Dan  in  his  surplice,  the 
fishermen  in  their  clean  ' '  ganzies, ' '  the  village  people  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  the  Rechabites,  the  Foresters,  and  the  Odd- 
fellows with  their  coloured  badges  and  banners  coming  round 
the  corner  of  the  road,  and  the  mothers  with  babies  too  young 
to  be  left  looking  on  from  the  bridge. 

I  thought  the  procession  passed  under  my  window  and  went 
on  to  the  church,  which  was  soon  crowded,  leaving  numbers 
of  people  to  kneel  on  the  path  in  front,  as  far  down  as  the 
crumbling  gate  piers  which  lean  towards  each  other,  their 
foundations  having  given  way. 

Then  I  thought  Benediction  began,  and  when  the  congre- 
gation sang  I  sang  also.  I  heard  myself  singing : 

"Mater  purissima, 
Ora  pro  nobis." 

Down  to  this  moment  I  thought  I  had  been  alone,  but  now 
the  Reverend  Mother  entered  my  room,  and  she  joined  me.  I 
heard  her  deep  rich  voice  under  mine : 

"Mater  castissima 
Ora  pro  nobis." 

Then  I  thought  the  Ora  ended,  and  in  the  silence  that 
followed  it  I  heard  Christian  Ann  talking  to  baby  on  the 
gravel  path  below.  I  had  closed  my  eyes,  yet  I  seemed  to  see 


I  AM  FOUND  581 

them,  for  I  felt  as  if  I  were  under  some  strange  sweet  anaes- 
thetic which  had  taken  away  all  pain  but  not  all  consciousness. 

Then  I  thought  I  saw  Martin  come  close  under  my  window 
and  lift  baby  up  to  me,  and  say  something  about  her. 

I  tried  to  answer  him  and  could  not,  but  I  smiled,  and  then 
there  was  darkness,  in  which  I  heard  voices  about  me,  with 
somebody  sobbing  and  Father  Dan  saying,  as  he  did  on  the 
morning  my  mother  died: 

' '  Don 't  call  her  back.  She 's  on  her  way  to  God 's  beautiful 
paradise  after  all  her  suffering." 

After  that  the  darkness  became  still  deeper,  and  the  voices 
faded  away,  and  then  gradually  a  great  light  came,  a  beauti- 
ful, marvellous,  celestial  light,  such  as  Martin  describes  when 
he  speaks  about  the  aurora,  and  then  ...  I  was  on  a 
broad  white  snowy  plateau,  and  Martin  was  walking  by  my 
side. 

How  wonderful!  How  joyful!  How  eternally  glorious! 
******* 

It  is  4  A.M.  Some  of  "the  boys"  will  be  on  their  way  to 
my  wedding.  Though  I  have  been  often  ashamed  of  letting 
them  come  I  am  glad  now  for  his  sake  that  I  didn  't  try  to  keep 
them  back.  With  his  comrades  about  him  he  will  control 
himself  and  be  strong. 

******* 

Such  a  peaceful  morning!  There  is  just  light  enough  to 
see  St.  Mary 's  Rock.  It  is  like  a  wavering  ghost  moving  in  the 
vapour  on  the  face  of  the  deep.  I  can  hear  the  far-off  murmur 
of  the  sea.  It  is  like  the  humming  in  a  big  shell.  A  bird  is 
singing  in  the  garden  and  the  swallows  are  twittering  in  a 
nest  under  the  thatch.  A  mist  is  lying  over  the  meadows, 
and  the  tree  tops  seem  to  be  floating  between  the  earth  and 
the  sky. 

How  beautiful  the  world  is ! 

Very  soon  the  mist  will  rise,  and  the  day  will  break  and  the 
sun  will  come  again  and  .  .  .  there  will  be  no  more  night. 

[END  OF  THE  NARRATIVE  OF  MARY  O'NEILL] 

MEMORANDUM  OF  MARTIN  CONRAD 

My  darling  was  right.  I  had  known  all  along,  but  I  had 
been  hoping  against  hope — that  the  voyage  would  set  her  up, 
and  the  air  of  the  Antarctic  cure  her. 


582  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAYEST  ME 

Then  her  cheerfulness  never  failed  her,  and  when  she  looked 
at  me  with  her  joyous  eyes,  and  when  her  soft  hand  slipped 
into  mine  I  forgot  all  my  fears,  so  the  blow  fell  on  me  as 
suddenly  as  if  I  had  never  expected  it. 

With  a  faint  pathetic  smile  she  gave  me  her  book  and  I 
went  back  to  my  room  at  the  inn  and  read  it.  I  read  all  night 
and  far  into  the  next  day — all  her  dear  story,  straight  from 
her  heart,  written  out  in  her  small  delicate,  beautiful  charac- 
ters, with  scarcely  an  erasure. 

No  use  saying  what  I  thought  or  went  through.  So  many 
things  I  had  never  known  before !  Such  love  as  I  had  never 
•even  dreamt  of,  and  could  never  repay  her  for  now! 

How  my  whole  soul  rebelled  against  the  fate  that  had  be- 
fallen my  dear  one!  If  I  have  since  come  to  share,  however 
reluctantly,  her  sweet  resignation,  to  bow  my  head  stubbornly 
where  she  bowed  hers  so  meekly  (before  the  Divine  Com- 
mandment), and  to  see  that  marriage,  true  marriage,  is  the 
rock  on  which  God  builds  His  world,  it  was  not  then  that  I 
thought  anything  about  that. 

I  only  thought  with  bitter  hatred  of  the  accursed  hypocrisies 
of  civilised  society  which,  in  the  names  of  Law  and  Religion, 
had  been  crushing  the  life  out  of  the  sweetest  and  purest 
woman  on  earth,  merely  because  she  wished  to  be  "mistress 
of  herself  and  sovereign  of  her  soul. ' ' 

What  did  I  care  about  the  future  of  the  world?  Or  the 
movement  of  divine  truths?  Or  the  new  relations  of  man 
and  woman  in  the  good  time  that  was  to  come?  Or  the 
tremendous  problems  of  lost  and  straying  womanhood,  or  the 
sufferings  of  neglected  children,  or  the  tragedies  of  the  whole 
girlhood  of  the  world?  What  did  I  care  about  anything 
but  my  poor  martyred  darling?  The  woman  God  gave  me 
•was  mine  and  I  could  not  give  her  up — not  now,  after  all  she 
had  gone  through. 

Sometime  in  the  afternoon  (heaven  knows  when)  I  went 
back  to  Sunny  Lodge.  The  house  was  very  quiet.  Baby  was 
babbling  on  the  hearth-rug.  My  mother  was  silent  and  trying 
not  to  let  me  see  her  swollen  eyes.  My  dear  one  was  sleeping, 
had  been  sleeping  all  day  long,  the  sleep  of  an  angel.  Strange 
and  frightening  fact,  nobody  being  able  to  remember  that  she 
had  ever  been  seen  to  sleep  before ! 

After  a  while,  sick  and  cold  at  heart,  I  went  down  to  the 
shore  where  we  had  played  as  children.  The  boat  we  sailed 
in  was  moored  on  the  beach.  The  tide  was  far  out,  making  a 


I  AM  FOUND  583 

noise  on  the  teeth  of  the  Rock,  which  stood  out  against  the 
reddening  sky,  stern,  grand,  gloomy. 

Old  Tommy  the  Mate  came  to  the  door  of  his  cabin.  I  went 
into  the  quiet  smoky  place  with  its  earthen  floor  and  sat  in  a 
dull  torpor  by  the  hearth,  under  the  sooty  "laff "  and  rafters. 
The  old  man  did  not  say  a  word  to  me.  He  put  some  turf  on 
the  fire  and  then  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool  at  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth-place. 

Once  he  got  up  and  gave  me  a  basin  of  buttermilk,  then 
stirred  the  peats  and  sat  down  again  without  speaking.  To- 
wards evening,  when  the  rising  sea  was  growing  louder,  I  got 
up  to  go.  The  old  man  followed  me  to  the  door,  and  there, 
laying  his  hand  on  my  arm  he  said : 

"She's  been  beating  to  windward  all  her  life,  boy.  But 
mind  ye  this — she's  fetching  the  harbour  all  right  at  last." 

Going  up  the  road  I  heard  a  band  of  music  in  the  distance, 
and  saw  a  procession  of  people  coming  down.  It  was  Father 
Dan's  celebration  of  thanksgiving  to  God  for  what  was  left 
of  Daniel  0  'Neill  's  ill-gotten  wealth  sent  back  from  Rome  for 
the  poor. 

Being  in  no  humour  to  thank  God  for  anything,  I  got  over 
a  sod  hedge  and  crossed  a  field  until  I  came  to  a  back  gate  to 
our  garden,  near  to  "William  Rufus's"  burial  place — stone 
overgrown  with  moss,  inscription  almost  obliterated. 

On  the  path  I  met  my  mother,  with  baby  toddling  and 
tumbling  by  her  side. 

"How  is  she  now?"  I  asked. 

She  was  awake — had  been  awake  these  two  hours,  but  in  a 
strange  kind  of  wakefulness,  her  big  angel  eyes  open  and 
shining  like  stars  as  if  smiling  at  someone  whom  nobody  else 
could  see,  and  her  lips  moving  as  if  speaking  some  words 
which  nobody  else  could  hear. 

"What  art  thou  saying,  boght  millish?"  my  mother  had 
asked,  and  after  a  moment  in  which  she  seemed  to  listen  in 
rapture,  my  darling  had  answered: 

"Hush!  I  am  speaking  to  mamma — telling  her  I  am 
leaving  Isabel  with  Christian  Ann.  And  she  is  saying  «he  is 
very  glad. ' ' 

We  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  house  until  we  came 
close  under  the  window  of  "Mary  0*NeiTs  little  room," 
which  was  wide  open. 

The  evening  was  so  still  that  we  could  hear  the  congregation 
singing  in  the  church  and  on  the  path  in  front  of  it. 


584  THE  WOMAN  THOU  GAVEST  ME 

Presently  somebody  began  to  sing  in  the  room  above.  It 
was  my  darling — in  her  clear  sweet  silvery  voice  which  I  have 
never  heard  the  like  of  in  this  world  and  never  shall  again. 

After  a  moment  another  voice  joined  hers — a  deep  A^oice, 
the  Reverend  Mother's. 

All  else  was  quiet.  Not  a  sound  on  earth  or  in  the  air.  A 
hush  had  fallen  on  the  sea  itself,  which  seemed  to  be  listening 
for  my  precious  darling's  last  breath.  The  sun  was  going 
down,  very  red  in  its  setting,  and  the  sky  was  full  of  glory. 

When  the  singing  came  to  an  end  baby  was  babbling  in 
my  mother's  arms — "Bo-loo-la-la-ma-ma."  I  took  her  and 
held  her  up  to  the  open  window,  crying: 

' '  Look,  darling !    Here 's  Girlie ! ' ' 

There  was  no  answer,  but  after  another  moment  the  Rev- 
erend Mother  came  to  the  window.  Her  pale  face  was  even 
paler  than  usual,  and  her  lips  trembled.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  she  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

And  by  that     ...     I  knew. 

"Out  of  the  depths  I  cry  unto  thee,  0  Lord,  Lord,  hear  my 
cry." 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER 

I  saw  him  off  at  Tilbury  when  he  left  England  on  his  last 
Expedition.  Already  he  was  his  own  man  once  more.  After 
the  blinding,  stunning  effect  of  the  great  event  there  had 
been  a  quick  recuperation.  His  spirit  had  risen  to  a  wonder- 
ful strength  and  even  a  certain  cheerfulness. 

I  did  not  find  it  hard  to  read  the  secret  of  this  change.  It 
was  not  merely  that  Time,  the  great  assuager,  had  begun  to 
do  its  work  with  him,  but  that  he  had  brought  himself  to 
accept  without  qualm  or  question  Mary  O'Neill's  beautiful 
belief  (the  old,  old  belief)  in  the  immortality  of  personal  love, 
and  was  firmly  convinced  that,  freed  from  the  imprisonment 
of  the  flesh,  she  was  with  him  every  day  and  hour,  and  that 
as  long  as  he  lived  she  always  would  be. 

There  was  nothing  vague,  nothing  fantastic,  nothing  mawk- 
ish, nothing  unmanly  about  this  belief,  but  only  the  simple 
faith  of  a  steady  soul  and  a  perfectly  clear  brain.  It  was 
good  to  see  how  it  braced  a  strong  man  for  life  to  face  Death 
in  that  way. 

As  for  his  work  I  found  him  quite  hopeful.  His  mission 
apart,  I  thought  he  was  looking  forward  to  his  third  trip  to 
the  Antarctic,  in  expectation  of  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
that  strengthening  region. 

As  I  watched  the  big  liner  that  was  taking  him  away  dis- 
appear down  the  Thames  I  had  no  more  doubt  that  he  would 
get  down  to  the  South  Pole,  and  finish  his  task  there,  than  that 
the  sun  would  rise  the  following  morning. 

Whatever  happens  this  time  he  will  "  march  breast  for- 
ward. ' ' 


MARTIN  CONRAD  TO  THE  AUTHOR 

WIRELESS — ANTARCTIC  CONTINENT  (via  MACQUARIE  ISLAND 
AND  RADIO  HOBART  16). 

Arrived  safe.  All  well.  Weather  excellent.  Blue  sky. 
Warm.  Not  a  breath  of  wind.  Sun  never  going  down. 
Constellations  revolving  without  dipping.  Feel  as  if  we  can 
see  the  movement  of  the  world.  Start  south  to-morrow. 
Calmer  than  I  have  ever  been  since  She  was  taken  from  me. 
But  She  was  right.  She  is  here.  "Love  is  stronger  than 
death,  many  waters  cannot  quench  it. ' ' 


THE  END 


By  the  same  Author 

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J.B.  Lippincott  Company's 

New    and    Forthcoming    Fiction 

A  Riot  of  Life  and  Love, — Bubbling  over  with  Wit, — 
Quick  in  Action 

Diana  Ardway 

By  VAN  Zo  POST.     Illustrated  in  color  by  Gayle  Hoskins.      I2m<x 
Cloth,  $1.25  net.     Postpaid,  $1.37. 

This  strong,  unconventional  love-story  is  a  tale  of 
primitive  passions  in  modern  characters.  The  author 
pictures  scenes  and  people  with  startling  frankness. 

Diana  Ardway,  millionairess,  ardent,  impulsive,  is  sum- 
mering with  her  aunt  in  the  rugged  Catskills.  Paul 
Worden,  dramatist,  is  engaged  on  a  new  play  at  his  bunga- 
low in  a  nearby  Summer  colony.  They  first  meet  on 
horse-back,  when  Paul,  an  ex-cavalryman,  saves  Diana 
from  the  spirited  and  unbroken  horse  she  is  riding.  The 
scene  is  unexpected  and  dramatic — and  this  unexpected- 
ness is  the  keynote  of  the  story.  One  never  knows  what 
is  coming  next. 

Diana,  irrepressible  and  accustomed  to  having  her  own 
way,  meets  a  match  in  Paul,  gruff,  at  times  brutal,  always 
impatient  of  her  youthfulness  and  position  in  society, 
which  latter  he  despises.  Their  friendship  grows  in  leaps 
and  bounds,  but  their  violently  opposed  temperaments 
make  it  one  of  continual  clashes,  sometimes  witty  and 
bubbling  over  with  laughter,  at  other  times  discordant 
and  harsh.  In  strange  contrast,  there  are  scenes  of  warm- 
hearted friendship  and  love,  in  which  the  author  in  a 
subtle,  convincing  way  shows  the  underlying  harmony 
between  the  two. 

The  reader's  emotions  will  run  riot  in  sympathy  with 
Diana,  who,  unknown  to  Paul,  is  really  fighting  for  a 
chance  to  live  her  own  life.  The  climax  is  one  of  tender 
beauty  and  rare  naturalness. 


By  the  Author  of   "FROM  THE  CAR  BEHIND" 

The  Unafraid 

By  ELEANOR  M.  INGRAM.    Three  illustrations  in  color  by  Edmund 
Frederick.     I2mo.     Cloth.  $1.25  net.     Postpaid,  $1.37. 

Readers  of  Miss  Ingram's  automobile  racing  story,  "From 
the  Car  Behind,"  will  remember  with  pleasure  the  American 
impetuosity  of  that  tale. 

"  The  Unafraid  "  is  written  in  the  same  lively  style,  but  the 
setting  is  more  picturesque,  being  the  rugged  mountains  of 
Montenegro.  Delight  Warren,  an  American  girl  of  wealth  and 
position,  two  handsome  Montenegrin  officers,  and  Jack  Rupert, 
of  auto  racing  fame,  are  the  principal  characters.  We  are 
carried  rapidly  along  from  one  romantic  adventure  to  another, 
— a  six  weeks'  courtship  and  betrothal, — an  accident  to  the 
bridegroom, — a  secret  auto  journey  made  by  Delight  with  the 
irrepressible  Jack  Rupert  at  the  wheel, — an  abduction, — a  series 
of  exciting  episodes  in  a  castle  on  the  Albanian  frontier, — and 
a  thrilling  climax.  It  is  a  joyous,  dashing,  care-killing  story, — 
a  characteristic  Ingram  achievement. 


Thorley  Weir 


By  E.  F.  BENSON,     izmo.    Cloth,  $1.35  net.    Postpaid,  $1.50. 

Mr.  Benson's  novels  are  remarkable  for  their  lucidity  of 
expression  as  well  as  their  depth  of  insight  into  human  rela- 
tions. In  his  stories  one  is  sure  to  find  a  subtle  analysis  of  a 
leading  character  who  is  possessed  by  some  peculiarity  of 
nature,  whether  good  or  bad,  which  sets  him  distinctly  aside 
from  the  crowd.  Such  is  Arthur  Craddock  who  endeavors  to 
win  Joyce  Wroughton  by  devious  means.  The  story  develops 
through  a  series  of  episodes  until  a  striking  climax,  when  two 
of  Craddock's  victims  expose  his  methods.  It  is  a  story  both 
grave  and  gay  and  Mr.  Benson  talks  well  about  things  that 
really  matter. 


The  Streak 


By  DAVID  POTTER.    Illustrated  by  M.  J.  Spero.     I2mo.    Cloth,  $1.25 
net.    Postpaid,  $1.37. 

There  have  been  numerous  stories  of  the  Philippines 
but  it  has  remained  for  David  Potter  to  do  for  the  "Is- 
lands" in  "The  Streak"  what  Kipling's  "Kim"  did  for 
India,  and  Hichen's  "Garden  of  Allah"  for  Egypt.  The 
author  has  handled  his  subject  on  a  large  canvas,  and  we 
see  both  the  gay  and  irresponsible  life  in  comparison  with 
the  more  serious  scenes  in  the  heterogeneous  Philippine 
world.  The  jungle  also  plays  an  important  part  in  the  story 
which  recounts  primarily  the  struggles  of  two  men  and  two 
women.  "The  Streak"  concerns  Dick  Nelson,  rich,  lov- 
able and  debonair,  who  woos  and  wins  Anne  Churchill,  a 
warm-hearted  Southern  girl.  Their  early  married  life  in 
the  Philippines  is  one  of  happiness  until  "the  streak" 
breaks  through  the  veneer  of  civilization,  causing  a  chain 
of  circumstances  which  holds  the  reader  enthralled 
throughout.  It  is  an  exceptionally  strong  story  of  heroism 
and  savagery,  of  wild  passion  and  tender  love. 


Ruth  Anne 


By  ROSE  CULLEN  BRYANT.  The  author  is  a  niece  of  the  American 
peet  William  Cullen  Bryant.  Illustrated  by  Will  Grefe'.  I2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37, 

The  romance  of  Ruth  Anne,  sweet  and  womanly,  and 
Dr.  Hollander,  a  big,  magnetic  physician,  is  one  of  subtle 
beauty.  Unconsciously  they  are  drawn  together  by  the 
similarity  of  their  ideals.  Ruth  Anne,  seeing  the  glorious 
possibilities  in  a  life  of  service,  at  first  takes  up  nursing  as 
a  career  and  later  goes  in  for  settlement  work.  In  all  of 
the  scenes  and  incidents  picturing  her  experiences  the 
author  brings  us  in  close  touch  with  a  real  and  varied 
humanity,  but  it  is  the  effect  which  some  of  the  sordid 
realities  of  life  have  upon  Ruth  Anne  that  interests  us 
most,  and  we  follow  intently  the  gradual  unfolding  of  her 
character.  Altogether  it  is  a  fine,  realistic  story,  uplifting 
in  its  outlook  upon  life,  and  with  a  love  story  of  rare 
naturalness. 


Two  Charming  Romances,  in  Holiday  Attire 

Lady  Laughter 

By  RALPH  HENRY  BARBOUR.  Illustrated  in  color  by  Gayle  Hoskins. 
With  page  decorations  in  tint  and  decorated  title-page  by  Edward 
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The  Barbour  holiday  book  this  season  is  a  real  pleasure- 
giving  combination. 

Betty  will  captivate  all  readers.  Richard  Hollidge,  grave, 
young  scholar,  athletic  and  manly,  while  strolling  in  his  garden 
unexpectedly  meets  an  entirely  self  contained  young  girl  in 
possession  of  one  of  his  favorite  seats.  Richard  is  somewhat 
disconcerted  and  her  calm  introduction  of  herself  as  a  distant 
relative  who  is  there  with  the  intention  of  paying  him  a  visit 
does  not  aid  matters.  But  impulsive,  imperious  Betty,  with 
her  winsome  ways  and  merry  laughter,  soon  fills  his  quiet 
household  with  sunshine  and  song.  She  upsets  things  gener- 
ally and  more  particularly  the  heart  and  dignity  of  Richard, 
who  soon  adores  her, — but  there  is  another  fellow,  and  many 
delightfully  humorous  scenes  before  we  close  this  laugh-pro- 
voking love  story, — Ralph  Henry  Barbour's  finest.  The 
scenes  are  laid  in  the  Berkshires  and  the  pungent  breath  of 
the  pines  breathes  forth  from  every  page. 

A  Rose  of  Old  Quebec 

By  ANNE  HOLLINGSWORTH  WHARTON.  Author  of  "In  Chateau 
Land,"  etc.  Frontispiece  by  M.  J.  Spero,  and  seven  illustrations  in 
double-tone.  I2mo.  Beautifully  bound  in  blue,  white  and  gold. 
$1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

This  charming  romance  produced  in  attractive  holiday 
style  is  written  in  Miss  Wharton's  inimitable  and  entertaining 
manner.  She  has  made  use  of  the  historical  love  affair  between 
Lord  Nelson,  then  a  young  Captain,  and  a  Quebec  beauty. 
Their  first  meeting  is  at  a  ball  given  in  honor  of  the  Captain 
and  crew  of  the  Albemarle,  at  which  affair,  Mary  Thompson, 
the  heroine,  dances  the  Matelote  Hollandaise  with  Ensign 
Allan  McGregor  who  later  plays  an  important  part  in  the 
romance.  Old  Quebec  with  its  many  historical  associations  is 
the  background  for  the  first  scenes  of  the  story,  which  is  brought 
to  a  close  some  years  later  in  London  where  Mary  Thompson 
and  Commodore  Nelson  again  meet,  after  the  latter  had  won 
recognition  for  his  heroic  services  to  the  Government.  Despite 
several  contretemps  the  story  ends  happily. 


"  A  Writer  to  be  reckoned  with." 

— Chicago  Record  Herald, 


By  ELIZABETH  DEJEANS.  Author  of  "The  Far  Triumph,"  "The  Heart 
of  Desire,"  "The  Winning  Chance,"  etc.  Three  illustrations  in  color 
by  F.  C.  Yohn.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

Freshness  of  viewpoint  and  a  power  of  revealing  the  true 
inner  emotional  life  of  men  and  women  have  won  for  Elizabeth 
De jeans  an  important  place  in  American  Letters. 

"The  House  of  Thane"  is  even  more  absorbing  than  the 
previous  novels.  It  is  a  vital  portrayal  of  the  modern  pirate, — 
a  subtle  study  of  emotion.  The  character  of  John  Thane  is 
remarkably  well  drawn  and  readers  will  be  impressed  by  the 
truthfulness  with  which  his  passions  and  emotions  are  de- 
scribed and  their  effect  upon  his  life  brought  out.  From  the 
moment  when  Thane  realizes  the  shallowness  of  his  wife  until 
the  climax,  the  story  is  a  succession  of  dramatic  and  thought- 
stirring  scenes.  The  gradual  awakening  of  this  strong  domi- 
nating man  to  the  true  values  in  life  through  the  devotion  of 
Mary  Kelly,  a  lovely  young  girl,  child  of  the  streets,  is  ex- 
quisitely done. 


"It  has  that  quality  of  interest  that  counts  for  so  much  in  fiction." — 
New  York  Herald. 

"The  book  is  a  vivid  reflection  and  disclosure  of  certain  phases  of  the 
American  human  drama  that  are  steadily  looming  larger  in  our  social  sys- 
tem."— Philadelphia  North  American. 

"Instinct  with  thought  and  feeling,  tense  and  yet  tender,  this  well  told 
story  is  vigorous  and  absorbing." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"Forcibly  told  from  first  to  last.  One  does  not  know  of  any  passage  in  a 
book  of  modern  fiction  that  has  more  of  swift,  red  blood,  of  nerves  and  muscle 
than  the  second  chapter  of  'The  House  of  Thane.'  The  author  has  one  feel 
that  scene  throughout.  The  book's  not  merely  entertaining,  it  is  interest- 
ing, every  line  of  it." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


A  Strong  Sociological  Love  Story 

"Lo,  Michael!" 

By  GRACE  L.  H.  LUTZ,  author  of  "  Marcia  Schuyler,"  "  Dawn  of  the 
Morning,"  etc.  Illustrated  in  color  by  Gayle  Hoskins.  I2tno.  Cloth, 
$1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

Novels  dealing  with  the  clash  of  social  classes  and 
the  problem  of  the  poor  are  very  often  unpleasant 
reading,  but  this  strong  sociological  love  story  is  one 
of  exquisite  charm  and  sentiment. 

"  Mikky,"  the  little  newsboy,  saves  the  life  of 
Starr,  the  baby  daughter  of  a  rich  banker,  from  an 
angry  mob.  Through  the  banker's  help  and  his  own 
indomitable  energy  "Mikky"  rises  to  power,  and 
not  the  least  of  that  which  makes  him  so  appealing 
is  his  remembrance  of  the  poorer  class  from  which 
he  arose.  The  story  of  how  he  and  Starr  eventually 
struggle  through  class  prejudice  to  happiness,  is 
developed  through  a  series  of  absorbing  incidents. 
Mrs.  Lutz  handles  all  her  characters  sympathetically 
and  as  the  story  grows  in  intensity,  the  social  differ- 
ences which  separate  Michael  and  Starr  are  brilliantly 
contrasted.  The  story  is  free  from  any  suggestion 
of  socialistic  motives,  and  is  a  most  absorbing 
human  chronicle. 

"  It  stirs  to  life  the  reader's  kindliness  and  love  of  good." 

— Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"A.  wholesome,  sweet,  interesting,  true  book  is  '  Lo,  Michael,'  by  Grace 
L.  H.  Lutz." — Catholic  Columbian,  Toledo,  Ohio. 

"A  virile  romance, — one  that  leaves  a  splendid  impression.  It  is  well 
written  with  good  character  drawing  and  filled  with  incidents  that  cause 
interest  to  grow  with  each  fresh  chapter." — Boston  Globe. 


A  Brilliant  Novel  of  Social  Life 

The  Unforgiving 
Offender 

By  JOHN  REED  SCOTT.  Author  of  "The  Last  Try."  "The  Colonel  of 
the  Red  Huzzars,"  etc.  Three  illustrations  in  color  by  Clarence  F. 
Underwood.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

SECOND  PRINTING 

"A  strong  and  distinctly  original  novel." — Boston  Globe. 

"John  Reed  Scott  has  shaken  off  the  ghastly  cloth  of  tradi- 
tion and  come  forth  into  the  open  to  hazard  a  novel  in  which 
a  woman  who  errs  recovers  her  lost  place  among  women  who 
are  good  women  merely;  not  anointed  saints. 

"The  book  is  brimful  of  an  atmosphere  that  is  as  bracing 
to  jaded  nerves  as  a  day  in  the  woods  or  the  companionship  of 
persons  who  exude  the  breadth  of  soul  that  comes  to  men  and 
women  who  refuse  to  be  tight  laced  into  old-fashioned  measure- 
ments of  right  and  wrong." — Minna  Thomas  Antrim  in  the 
Philadelphia  Record. 

"An  original  study  of  manners  and  customs  of  the  day — 
scenes  of  lightsome  gallantry,  intricate  social  diplomacy  and 
swift,  animated  action.  Mr.  Scott  holds  a  bright  mirror  up 
to  an  important  social  class — in  which,  if  they  will,  they  may 
discern  one  of  the  subtlest  and  most  interesting  criticisms  of 
them  and  of  their  frailties,  follies  and  aspirations  that  has  yet 
appeared  in  form  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"An  interesting  portrayal  of  the  problem  of  the  woman 
who  has  transgressed  the  social  law,  and  who  repents  and  seeks 
rehabilitation.  The  book  has  its  especial  interest  from  its 
faithful  pictures  of  society,  and  the  wealth  of  characteristic 
types,  from  the  bounders  and  climbers  to  the  thoroughbreds 
like  Pendleton  Burgoyne  and  Gladys  Chamberlain." — Boston 
Herald. 


A  Splendid  Romance  of  Love  and  Adventure 

The  Road  of  Living  Men 

By  WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT.  Author  of  "Routledge  Rides  Alone," 
"Fate  Knocks  at  the  Door,"  etc.  Frontispiece  in  color  by  M.  Leone 
Bracker.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37.  Second  Printing. 

HIGH  APPRECIATION  FROM  ALL  QUARTERS 

California 

"Mr.  Comfort  writes  stories  that  are  unlike  any  other.    He  has  struck 

a  new  note  in  fiction." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 
Pennsylvania 

"There  are  descriptive  pages  of  high  dramatic  power,  and  few  novels 

are  so  replete  with  epigrammatic  sentences,  terse,  vivid  and  vitalized  with 

poignant  significance." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 
Illinois    . 

"One  has  no  hesitation  in  classing  it  with  the  best  romantic  fiction  of 

the  day  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 
Massachusetts 

"A  fascinating  love  story,  which  is  equalled  only  in  charm  by  the 

author's  delightful  literary  style." — Boston  Globe. 
District  of  Columbia 

"Not  even  Maurice  Hewlett  can  spread  a  more  splendid  tapestry 

whereon  scene  and  incident,  vision  and  dream,  pattern  themselves  in 

rich  design  and  color." — Washington  Evening  Star. 
Louisiana 

"It  is  a  story  of  strong  interest,  almost  fascinating  in  its  climax  of 

adventure." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 
Ohio 

"A  compelling,  dramatic  story  written  in  a  distinguished  manner." — 

Cincinnati  Enquirer. 
New  York 

"A  very  vivid  story  which  one  reads  with  no  halting  interest." — New 

York  World. 

Utah 

"This  novel  is  sure  to  enhance  the  fame  of  the  author." — Salt  Lake 

City  Tribune. 
Tennessee 

"The  book  fairly  breathes  optimism  and  joy." — Knoxville  Journal- 
Tribune. 
Jowa 

"An  absorbing  story  and  one  that  should  awaken  admiration  for  the 

high  standard  it  maintains." — Des  Moines  Capital. 
Minnesota 

"A  compelling  dramatic  story  written  in  a  distinguished  manner." — 

Minneapolis  Journal. 

Canada 

"This  book  will  be  one  of  the  greatest  sellers  of  the  coming  season." — 
Montreal  Star. 


An  Elusive  Mystery — A  Delightful  Love  Story 

The  Maxwell  Mystery 

By  CAROLYN  WELLS.  Author  of  "A  Chain  of  Evidence,"  "The 
Gold  Bag,"  etc.  Frontispiece  in  color  by  Gayle  Hoskins.  I2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

"A  clever  mystery  yarn." — Pittsburg  Post. 

"Holds  one  firmly  and  powerfully  to  the  end." — Philadel- 
phia Press. 

"This  is  Miss  Wells's  best  detective  story  and  it  is  a  very 
good  one  indeed." — New  York  World. 

"The  story  is  a  baffling  one  and  is  one  of  the  most  intense, 
strenuous  style,  covering  up  the  real  secret  until  well  toward 
the  close." — Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

"The  best  novel  by  far  that  Miss  Wells  has  written.  It  is 
full  of  surprises  and  is  a  most  exciting  story." — Newark  Evening 
Star. 

"Dainty  and  fragrant  as  a  new-blown  rose." 

— Jacksonville  Times-  Union. 

A  Pair  of  Little  Patent 
Leather  Boots 

By  EDITH  STOTESBURY  HUTCHINSON.  Sixty-three  illustrations.  Large 
I2mo.  Cloth,  gilt  top.  $1.50  net.  Postpaid,  $1.65. 

"A  bewitching  love  story  of  tantalizing  interest." — Port- 
land Oregonian. 

"One  of  the  cleverest  books  this  spring — the  reader  is  treated 
to  a  delightfully  refreshing  romance." — Ithaca  Journal. 

"One  of  those  delightful  rare  little  stories  that  engages  the 
reader  at  the  start  and  holds  interest  till  finished,  leaving  a 
sweet  impression  on  the  memory." — Grand  Rapids  Herald. 

"  It  is  a  jolly  charmingly  told  story." — The  Salt  Lake  Tribune. 


A  Romance  of  Indescribable  Charm 

Sally  Castleton 
Southerner 

By  CRITTENDEX  MARRIOTT.  Author  of  "The  Isle  of  Dead  Ships,"  etc. 
Six  illustrations  by  N.  C.  Wyeth.  Frontispiece  in  color.  I2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

SECOND  PRINTING 

In  this  love  story,  brimming  with  action,  the  principal 
characters  are  Sally  Castleton,  the  lovely  daughter  of  a 
Confederate  general,  and  Frank  Radcliffe,  a  Northern 
spy,  who  penetrates  the  Southern  lines  on  a  dangerous 
mission.  Under  peculiar  circumstances  Sally  becomes  the 
captor  of  Frank.  Thereafter  love  and  duty  struggle  for 
supremacy  in  the  heart  of  Sally  through  all  of  the  tense 
moments  and  exciting  scenes  leading  up  to  the  climax  at 
the  Castleton  homestead.  The  author  has  written  of  war 
times  with  true  art,  and  has  conceived  a  romance  of  in- 
describable charm  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  dark  shadows 
of  the  Rebellion. 


"It  is  a  tale  well  told — the  characters  are  drawn  with  unusual  distinct- 
ness."— Boston  Transcript. 

"A  swiftly  moving,  entertaining  tale  of  love  and  daring  secret  service 
work." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"A  romance  of  indescribable  charm  pictured  in  vivid  contrast  to  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  Rebellion." — Catholic  Churchman,  New  Orleans,  La. 

"There  are  tense  moments  of  wonderful  emotional  stress  and  Mr.  Mar- 
riott has  dealt  with  them  soberly,  yet  with  much  power." — Philadelphia 
Ledger. 

"The  story  moves  along  with  all  the  sustained  interest  and  quick  action 
of  a  well-constructed  drama.  It  is  a  rattling  good  romance  of  the  Civil 
War." — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"Must  be  read  to  the  end — the  interest  is  so  intense  and  healthy." — 
Portland  Oregonian. 

"A  Civil  War  story  that  makes  the  blood  tingle." — Boston  Globe. 

"A  delightful  story  of  Civil  War  days." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 


Alive  with  Remarkable  Situations" 

— New  Haven  Journal  Courier 


The  Parasite 


By  HELEN  R.  MARTIN,  author  of  "  Tillie,  A  Mennonite  Maid."  Two 
illustrations  in  color  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg.  I2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.25  net.  Postpaid,  $1.37. 

THIRD  LARGE  PRINTING 

A  brave  and  discerning  presentment  of  a  problem  vital 
to  every  one,  is  this  strong  story  of  Joan  Laird  and 
Judge  Randall,  married  only  in  name.  It  might  well  be 
termed  "a  novel  of  the  unexpected,"  and  is  radically 
different  from  any  of  Mrs.  Martin's  former  stories. 
Joan's  unusual  situation  in  the  family  of  the  Judge  gives 
rise  to  individual  and  social  problems  of  deep  interest, 
which  the  author  handles  in  a  startling  manner.  "  The 
Parasite  "  is  a  powerful  revelation  of  human  character 
and  a  phase  of  American  social  life. 


"Frankly  and  cleanly  told, — Mrs  Martin  strikes  a  new  and  a  thrilling 
note  in  the  music  drama  of  love." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"The  characters  are  full  of  human  traits  and  the  author's  treatment  of 
their  problems  makes  this  novel  a  true  and  powerful  revelation  of  human 
character  and  American  social  life."  —  Current  Opinion,  New  York. 

"An  immensely  vital  theme  furnishes  Helen  Reimensnyder  Martin 
tremendous  possibilities  in  'The  Parasite,'  and  the  fact  that  she  realizes 
every  one  of  them  accounts  for  the  novel's  success.  .  .  .  The  happenings 
contain  not  only  absorbing  character  studies,  but  a  chain  of  events  fas- 
cinatingly told."  —  Boston  Globe. 

"  No  novel  will  arouse  so  much  discussion  and  lead  to  such  a  diversity 
of  opinion  as  'The  Parasite* — the  society  novel  of  the  season." 

— Grand  Rapids  Herald, 


There  are  times    W  1J  £>  .N    children  seem  not 

to  be  quite  up  to  par,  then  it  is  that  the  watchful 
parent  is  doubtful  as  to  the  seriousness  of  the  symp- 
toms, and  naturally  the  question  arises  as  to 

whether  it  be  wise  1  O  ot/W  U  for  medical  advice. 


To  have  the  answer  to  this  query  always  at  hand 
in  the  simplest  and  most  untechnical  manner  possi- 
ble, and  yet  with  sound  scientific  caution,  a  little 

book  has  been  written  r  OK.  fathers,  mothers,  and 

teachers.  It  is  planned  differently  from  all  other 
books  in  the  field.  It  is  the  result  of  both  medi- 
cal and  psychological  experience  gained  in  clinical 
and  general  practice.  The  book  tells  when  not 

to  send   for  THK  DOCTOR   and  exactly 

when  to  do  so.  It  catalogues  the  simple,  every-day, 
well-known  ailments  by  their  common  names,  tells 
how  to  treat  them,  and  sharply  marks  them  off  from 
the  serious  diseases  demanding  a  doctor's  advice. 
When  an  emergency  arises  it  tells  you 

What  to  Do  Before 
the  Doctor  Comes 

When  to  Send  for  the  Doctor 

And  What  to  Do  Before  the  Doctor  Comes 

By  DR.  F.  E.  LIPPERT  and  DR.  ARTHUR  HOLMES.  Sixteen  full-page 
illustrations  and  frontispiece  in  color.  izmo.  Cloth,  $1.25  net. 
Postpaid,  $1.37. 

"  The  best  book  of  its  kind  which  I  have  ever  seen."  —  Mrs.  Mary  I.  Wood, 
Manager,  General  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs. 


New  Books  in  General  Literature 

The  Curious  Lore  of  Precious  Stones 

Being  a  Description  of  Their  Sentiments  and  Folk-Lore,  Superstitions, 
Symbolism,  Mysticism,  Use  in  Medicine,  Protection,  Prevention,  Religion 
and  Divination.     On  Crystal  Gazing,  Birth  Stones  and  Royal  Jewels. 
By  GEORGE  FREDERICK  KUNZ,  A.M.,  Ph.D.,  D.Sc.    With  numerous 
plates  in  color  and  double-tone.     8vo.     Cloth,  decorated  in  blue  and 
gold,  gilt  top.     Boxed,  $5.00  net.     Postpaid,  $5.30. 
The  object  of  this  work  is  to  indicate  and  illustrate  the  vari- 
ous ways  in  which  precious  stones  have  been  used  at  different 
times  and  among  different  peoples,  and  more  especially  to  ex- 
plain some  of  the  curious  ideas  and  fancies  that  have  gathered 
around  them. 

The  Book  of  the  Epic 

By  H.  A.  GUERBER.    With  16  illustrations,     izmo.    Cloth,  $2.00  net. 
Postpaid,  $2.15. 

The  author  tells  the  story  of  every  great  epic  in  entertaining 
prose.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  great  epics  are  not  con- 
fined to  Homer,  Virgil,  Milton,  and  a  few  other  well-known 
works,  but  include  over  thirty  or  more  world  famous  poems  of  all 
languages.  A  book  of  this  character  has  long  been  needed  and 
should  prove  of  great  value  and  entertainment  to  the  general 
reader. 


The  Drama  To-Day 


By  CHARLTON  ANDREWS.    Cloth  back,  imported  paper  sides,  with 
paper  label.    Uncut  edges.     Flat  I2mo.    $1.50  net.     Postpaid,  §1.65. 
This  book  supplies  the  need  of  a  brief  compendium  of  the 
Drama  To-Day  as  it  is  practised  not  only  in  England  and 
America,  but  also  upon  the  Continent.    It  gives  in  small  com- 
pass accurate  general  information  as  to  the  leaders  of  the  mod- 
ern stage  and  their  work.     The  author  also  presents  some 
opinions  as  to  the  prospects  and  tendencies  of  dramatic  art. 

Handy  Book  of  Curious  Information 

By  WILLIAM  S.  WALSH.     Crown  8vo.    Half  morocco,  gilt  top,  $3.50 

net.    Uniform  with  Lippincott's  Readers'  Reference  Library. 

For  many  years  Mr.  Walsh  has  been  collecting  the  curious 

and  out  of  the  way  information  contained  in  this  volume. 

These  facts,  stories,  and  bits  of  knowledge  have  never  before 

been  presented  in  this  form  and  could  only  be  obtained  by 

search  through  documents  and  papers  not  generally  accessible. 


A"  "•"  '  '    I  II     I  I 
000  114412 


